Tiger

I am a tiger.

I became one at 11, as my body stretched and grew awkwardly into its shape.

On a middle school trip to France for culture, architecture and food,

we found ourselves

Somehow

In a clothing store.

Excitement grew as we scanned swimsuits.

This was the summer we had waited for:

From one piece

To two.

A grey bikini with short bottoms caught my eye

I eagerly tried it on

Then came out to display it to my friends

The Mean Girls rule applies – you can’t buy something unless everyone agrees on it.

I opened the curtains to find

A boy had infiltrated our group

Now part of the judging panel

He declared:

“What are those tiger stripes on your legs?!”

That’s when I knew I was a tiger.

An ugly one.

One that stood out too much

Too far

And so

I hid away.

Those lines that symbolised womanhood

Strength

Growth

Became the lines

The scars

The daggers marks

That ruined me

Ruined looking in the mirror

Ruined my esteem

I hated the stripes.

The represented my weakness.

You have a weakness too.

Something you feel "lets the side down."

The bump on your nose.

The hair down your back.

The lines on your belly.

The marks on your leg.

Your stripes are big and small

dark and light

bumpy and ridged

wrinkled and taut

Your stripes make you cry

Wince in pain, scream aloud, feel such

Shame

His stripes did the same.

From the whips and the chains

From the crowd jeering his name

As the blood poured out red

As His body went dead

Yet by His stripes we are healed.

Where others saw weakness

There was strength and power

Healing

Life.

His stripes saved me.

And yours will too.

Because behind the scar,

The stripe, the bump,

The line, the cut, the bruise

The disfigurement

Is a story.

As a tiger, 

I couldn’t rely on the outside, the appeal, the appearance to draw a crowd in

I learnt to be modest

That my body wasn’t a spectacle

So I stood back and watched others take centre stage

And watched as flirtation and then promiscuity stood by them and took a bow

And went into 

the encore.

As a growing tiger

Older

Supposedly wiser

My stripes as deep as they were before

I gather my cubs

With their marks, cuts, bruises

The things they just don’t like about

Themselves

And tell them the story of my stripes

And hope that by telling my tale

They

Will be healed.

Their esteem restored

Their hearts inspired

Their lives changed

Though memories fade

Hearts are healed

Your scars won’t be taken away

Because without them

You are plain animal

With no story to tell

With no story to bring hope.

Embrace the thing you most dislike about yourself

and ask

what is the story beneath it?

what is the power it holds?

what have I been taught through it?

whose life will it make a difference to?

I am a tiger.

What animal are you?