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You degrade me, push me down, and hurt me.
But yet I would take on a army for you.
You make me cry, you make my soul sting, my heart clench up.
But yet I would take a bullet for you.
You notice my scars, then tell me to smile. But all you do, it's impossible for me to smile.
I etch some more into my arm, afraid of disappointing you, the one who caused these wounds.
"Don't yell." I proclaim. I may not be able to smile. But my flesh can.
This is a story about how I had the smile cut on the top of my hand.
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