as you held me,
your hands moved across me,
your fingertips tracing
every curve of my body.
your hands wandered
until they found my scars.
every muscle in my body tensed up,
waiting for you to comment on them.
they weren’t new.
by this time, I had dealt
with all types of reactions.
there were the people
who were disgusted
and didn’t try to hide it,
the people who were made so
uncomfortable that
they didn’t know what to say,
the people who
insisted they understood
when it was obvious that they didn’t.
you were hard to read.
I wasn’t sure what to expect from you.
you pulled me closer to you
and held me tighter,
and I felt myself relax.
you didn’t tell me you were fine with them, you didn’t tell me you were sorry,
and you didn’t tell me they were beautiful.
you were honest,
and I loved that.
you weren’t fine with them,
but neither was I,
and that didn’t stop you
from caring about me.
you weren’t sorry,
you didn’t pity me,
and you didn’t change
the way you acted around me
like most people do.
but most importantly,
you did not call them beautiful.
they aren’t.
there is nothing beautiful
about self-hatred,
and these scars
are nothing more
than its byproducts.
self-harm is not pretty.
my past is not pretty.
my scars are not pretty.
I told you all of this.
you didn’t disagree with me,
you didn’t try to argue.
you simply held me.
you didn’t look at my scars,
you looked at me.
you didn’t say much.
you didn’t have to.
when you did finally speak,
you told me,
“you’re right.
your past isn’t pretty.
but that doesn’t mean
your future can’t be.”
