The first time you saw
The white streaks of healed tissue
That ran across my arm, you said,
"I'm surprised but proud of you."
You were proud that I wore them
Like a badge of honor not shame,
That I didn't hide them like others
Did with their own.
Later, we talked about them again
And you revealed how you thought
I seemed to be used to them now
And I didn't notice them anymore.
Want to know what I notice?
I notice how strangers hesitate
When they see me or meet me.
I notice how mothers distract
Their kids when I walk past.
I notice the whispers then silence
When I move my arms.
I notice judgement from people
Who don't know the first thing about me.
I notice the looks of sadness or pity
But never acceptance.
I notice how my heart constricts
Because they don't know my story.
I notice how I hate myself more
For the fact that I am so messed up.
I notice the fact that I'm always aware
And completely unused to them.
The death of a loved one:
You don't get over, just used to.
This--these scars on the body and soul:
You don't get used to, just live with.