i have always fancied the decrepit,
the abandoned,
the unsightly,
the imperfect,
the rough,
the dull.
i have always found refuge
in desolate places
and found company
in the derelict.
the unwanted,
the forsaken,
the forlorn,
have always held my interest.

there is something unbelievably beautiful
in sadness
that draws me,
that calls me to it.
perhaps this is the same appeal
that holds me to you.
i look at you
and touch you
and i draw back in pain,
but i desire to embrace you still,
you
and your undesirable past,
your confused present,
and your uncertain future.

i am there
touching every scar
and wanting to peer
through every crack and crevice.
i want every tear
for myself.
i shall keep every drop
in a jar inside my heart
until i, too, overflow
with every ache.

it takes one to know one,
my brother always said.
i guess he’s right.
my own weaknesses,
my blemishes,
my defects
make it easy for me
to look at you
and see that you are one
of incomparable value.

those are battle scars,
i'd always say.
nobody has a right
to disrespect
the wars
others have fought
and the losses
others have suffered.
yours are some
of the most interesting
wounds i've ever seen.

your imperfections are priceless, baby,
and i’d gladly give what’s left unscarred in me
for the benefit
of embracing
all that you are.

for j.e.
*111614

Ten seconds was plenty of
time for me
to change my mind.
The people I love today
who never knew then
feel the relieving emotion
of how I chose
to stay.
I lost my love,
I got pushed and stripped
of my control.
I grew very strong
I wrote out my heart.
I may have sobbed,
I may have thrown,
I may have sacrificed nourishment
and looked away.
It was time to open new doors
and let some in.
Certain possibilities revoked,
amending for easier ways to remain.
The scissors are now in the trash.
Others found their deserved love.
Moved on from the
threatening gang.
When we all let go,
we know it was not meant to be.
Happy memories
are not to present
what is no longer deserved,
but to put us back in our
best moments.
These moments I remember,
looking into people's eyes.
They fill with tears
after knowing I could have been
gone.
There would be no community of
laughter and love.
Nobody would have ever met
if I hadn't stayed.
Somehow I was stopped,
doesn't matter who or how.
You all made me happy
I stayed.

From the time I could walk,
Daddy was never there for the little talks.
Twelve years young,
And I'm drowning in tears,
Never imagining those would be the worst years.
I can remember feeling so hopeless,
Falling down such a slippery *****.
Depression was my label,
With my anxiety growing unstable.
Fourteen years young,
And I'm beginning to see blood.
Coming out of my arms like a flood.
I've grown to love the color of red,
Did you know that seeing too much would mean I was dead?
Sixteen years young,
And I'm killing my lungs.
Everything is starting to get better,
I've become a goal setter.
I'm grateful for everything I went through,
Because now, life means so much more.
I may not be completely healed,
But I'm better off where I am now then I was before.

Let your lips
graze my skin,
leaving no
exposed patch
untouched.
Pepper my
broken pieces
with your perfect
bandaids and
mend the scars
I swear would
never leave.
I am utterly
convinced
you are the
antidote I
thought
I'd never
find.
-JRM

I draw on my body in pen where I once drew with a knife.
I breathe deep and recall when I gave up on life.
I sit still to remember though there's no way I could forget,
the days I gave no regard for years I hadn't lived yet.

To live in utter hatred for yourself is something I can't explain.
It's impossible to put words to that intimate pain.
Never so lonely as when I'm surrounded, so why,
when I'm loved and cared for, do I most want to die?

I hide to conceal my brokenness.
Some faults are easier than others to confess.
Do not test my limits, I am too jaded to cry,
but when you ask if I'm ok, I will always lie.

I beg, don't ask why
Just please let me die.

i'm not good enough
i'm reminded by
the scars on my skin
and the ones deep down
inside my chest
the redness in my eyes
when i awake in the morning
it's either the nightmares
or you
that keep me awake
both harbor the same
pain inside

The sea, endless, magnificent blue
Reminds me of your deep swirling eyes
Looking at me with mischievous love
Reflecting the big, open skies

The stars of the dark night
Remind me of the scars dotted on your skin
Painting your body in loose touches
Polaroids of everywhere you've been

The Sun, in its bright glory
Reminds me of your smile
Radiating, powerful, from cheek to cheek
Sadly, I haven't seen it in a while.

And finally, I must say, my love
I realize, as I finish this verse
Before, I saw the universe in you
Now, I see you in the universe

– billiondays

He took hold of her hand and turned it over to look at her thumb, where a little sore could be seen from her picking at it nervously. She balled her hand into a fist, hiding the sore inside.

"Don't look at that," she let out squeamishly.

"Why not?"

"Because it's gross, and it's bad right now."

"It's okay. It's not gross."

Something in the way she spoke about it stirred him. Whenever he heard pain, embarrassment, or shame in her voice, he was compelled by a desire to see her healed. He found her vulnerability to be beautiful, even when it revealed what others might consider a flaw.

He used a bit of force to pry her hand open so he could see. She resisted at first, but gave in, knowing she wouldn't win the fight. Two small, partially-scabbed indentations ran parallel across the inside of her thumb. He gently grazed the tip of his own thumb over them. It was a little worse than usual.

"Why is it bad?" he asked, already knowing the answer.

"I've kind of been through a lot recently," she said half-jokingly.

"Yeah. You have."

He ran his thumb over the sores again. He took his eyes off them, held her hand in his, and began to caress it.

"Want to know something?" he asked.

"What?"

"You are really beautiful."

"Oh, stop."

"I'm serious. And I don't care about your sores. I mean I care about them, but they don't repel me. They just show me a little bit about you. They remind me of things."

"Like what?"

He continued to glide his fingers up and down the length of her own.

"Like they remind me to be gentle with you. That the things I say and do affect you, and if I say or do certain things, I can hurt you. I don't want to make your sores worse. I don't want to be the one making you anxious."

Instead of getting in a little joke that would make light of what he was saying, she sat silently, just hearing him speak. She watched his hand adjust to where their palms and fingers lined up with each others', as if he wanted to compare their size.

"And they remind me of what's going on with you. Whether it's work, family, friends, whatever. They just bring those things to mind and make me think about you."

He intertwined his fingers with hers and pulled her closer on the couch, still caressing her hand. She began to do the same in return.

As she considered what he'd said, all her problems came to mind. Just like he mentioned: work, a broken family, painful relationships, and things in the past she didn't like to think about, though she had more or less come to terms with them. Why would someone like him want to deal with all that? She wondered why he loved her.

"I think you love my problems," she said half in jest, though she really was trying to understand what was behind his feelings.

He pondered the comment. He was accustomed to a woman who rarely admitted fault. The problem with this wasn't so much that she wouldn't admit her faults, though. The problem was the attitude of superiority, of entitlement, of believing in her own relative perfection and demanding perfection in return.

The woman whose hand he held, though, had an aura of graceful humility about her. What a breath of fresh air. Now he was with someone he was eager to offer himself to, who could accept him in his flawed state, and who could accept the good in him as a gift to her, though she questioned whether she deserved it.

"I don't love your problems. It's not about them. It's your response to them. It's how kind and caring of a person you are in spite of the things you've been through. It doesn't hurt that we've been able to connect through some similar experiences, but in the end, that's not it. It's your heart that I love."

She took it in. They had become friends quicker than anyone she could remember. Somehow, things had just clicked for them, and they got to know the deepest parts of one another over the course of a few months. The progression from friends to more-than-friends came naturally.

She was still getting used to the way he treated her, but she knew it was sweet. As she reflected, she began to wonder if there really was something as wonderful about her heart as he seemed to believe.

He gave her a squeeze with his arm around her back. She turned toward him and rested her head just below his shoulder on his chest. He kissed her on the forehead, then on the cheek, and then on the lips.

"You okay?" he asked.

"Yeah. I'm good."

I hope when you look at your scars
And you notice you've been picking a lot
You remember
How I wrote that story about them
About you
Loving you
Because whatever you do
You are loved
Even though you don't love me