Essentially depending on the hour, three to four or even six in the morning, I roll down my sleeves and allow my scars to breathe.
The scars on my arms that mark and resemble emotional pain. They themselves take deep breaths, just like I.
But. No other hour I allow them to, for they must be concealed and hid from the many monsters that roam and universally rend me in particular.
Though, it's nice to know I am not alone. I love my scars, even if I cut and deliberately open them on purpose. They are almost reminiscent of a friend you know is too good for you, too kind, too selfless and too patient.
Like a wonderful friend you adore, taking the form of a cut on your arm.