I have scars etched across my skin
like raindrops that drizzled down and stained
the yellowing pages of your notebook.
I don't like talking about the black outs,
where my mind goes,
what's left of me.
I don't like talking about what triggers them,
or who I am after I come to.
but these scars are physical reminders
of memories I never got to remember.
and every time you kiss them
I think to myself
"maybe even that part of me,
whoever she is,
deserves to be loved too."
and I wonder if looking
at my hands and arms
makes you sad,
or if feeling the raised skin
makes you uneasy
but either way
I love when you kiss my scars
and make me whole.
Bluebird is the first person to ever do that.