by Samantha Nimmo


Naked, I stand in front of the mirror. My hands trace the curve of my waist, not quite as cinched as it once was, and the faint outline of muscles on my stomach, proving that I was stronger for it. Pink and white scars that once screamed for attention now sit quietly, accustomed to their place in the patchwork. I wriggle my toes against the carpet, as if to prove to myself that they still work, that I am indeed still whole. My arms lift above my head, stretching me taller. Ribs which used to poke through my skin are now only just visible, content to contain a heart as broken and as brilliant as the rest of me.

This body, I think, does not get enough credit. For not all hands that have touched it have been kind and some stole stitches from my seams. But sometimes things are more beautiful for their imperfections.

In Japanese culture, when a plate or bowl breaks, they do not throw away the pieces. It is mended and the new seams sealed with gold. The dish is not the same as before. No. It is new, unique and all the more beautiful for having been broken.

And so for all the hands that have broken me, there are those that flooded me with gold.

I am not the same as before.

But there is more beauty flowing through me than there ever has been.

Lessons in Love

I have been in love four times.

The first was a desperate, needing, seeking love that I hoped could fill all the empty spaces inside me. I longed and clung and begged and taught him that he could do anything to me, as long as he fixed it with those words that created more emptiness than they ever filled:

I love you.

The second was a hopeful love, one that put all of our pieces in the right place. We made each other whole for a while as our bodies recovered from the past and our hearts learned not to run scared while out mouths still uttered ‘sorry’ for the way we had been used. It fell softly, silently, swiftly into disrepair as we learned we could be whole by ourselves. He taught me how it felt to hear a true:

I love you.

The third is a peaceful love, like coming home. My heart did not skip a beat as it had before but steadied into a sure pace, confident that it had finally found a place to rest. He teaches me that I do not have to apologise for aching and holds me when I cannot help myself. I am safe here, with this heart that builds me up to be more than I ever was, not filling voids but evolving me into something, not pretty or cute or even beautiful, but powerful. And I cannot stop saying:

I love you.

The fourth is a grateful kind of love.

Not for a boy.

For the mind that has weathered many storms and pulled me through each and every one. For the body that has been misused and neglected and yet stands so strong, so proud now. For the soul that has been taught to value itself by the people who valued it least. And for the first time in my life, I am learning to look myself in the eye and say:

I love you.

About the Author


Samantha is an 18 year old English student from Scotland. She's been writing her whole life but has become more and more interested in poetry over the last year. Sam hopes to be a published author someday.

Social Media: Instagram - @samnimmopoetry