My Body is Not a Battleground

by Sofía Villafaña

War zones are less scarred than my body. There’s less damage in broken bones and broken hearts than there is buried in the soul of my body. Yet it’s still mine, it’s still beautiful, it’s still breathing. I consider the words of Chanel Miller, “This book does not have a happy ending. The happy part is there is no ending, because I’ll always find a way to keep going.” I wonder if that’s the kind of strength I have, considering that I’m still here. Or maybe, I’m just someone holding on for dear life, either way I kept going. My body looks like the ruins of Pompeii, and the garden of Eden. It’s ugly in ways that the world is, but beautiful in the ways humans inherently are. 

I have scars on my body, some from my own hand, some art, some scars that no one but me can see. The anxiety in my chest when I think of the pain of the past and uncertainty of the future, the shame in my body and skin in the marks real and imagined, and the embarrassment of the ways my originality makes me stick out like a sore thumb. My body has these pieces of ink that carry the parts of my story I’m too scared to talk about. These raised marks that I carved into my own arm, they represent a dark side that no one gets to see but those closest to me. They all stick, the scars I can feel with my fingertips and the ones I feel with my heart. They stick to me and force me to grow around the trauma. 28 pieces of ink signifying freedom for the 28 days it takes to transform yourself.

The blood that poured out from my wrists painted my toenails in red. The color seeped in between the floorboards and dripped over my childhood pictures stacked in the basement. The pictures show a different girl, a girl who didn’t know the dark corners of her neighborhood. She didn’t get her virginity stolen, her firsts were all tainted by selfish men who did ugly things. She didn’t know the ways people could be so horrible, and still call themselves children of God. The blood ruins everything it touches, leaving a dark red stain over the panels of wood and pictures of a girl who once believed in love. There was a time she danced, she danced because it made her smile. Because she had skill with tap shoes and elegance in her plie. 

The woman who stands before you now, her body has been ruined. It’s been stolen and used for whatever else society deems important. Rape kits and weight loss pills, diets and a juice cleanse. This body carries the weight of being immigrant made, carries the weight of a matriarchal family that the patriarch controls and ruins. This woman also has swirls and sparkles going up my body, rolls and hard turns of ink over curves and hard turns of my body. Piercings and tattoos, acrylic nails and 3D art. Here I stand before you, before your watchful eyes and cameras, and I know you see the layers on this canvas. The layers of where I began and where I ended up. I also know you see the flowers, and paint, you see the pearls and gold. You can see amber and peeling nail paint, ear piercings and plump lips. You see all parts of me, and only because I let you.