“Tell me about this one”
He said as he pointed to my arm
I looked at a puffy line across my elbow
I smiled and shook my head,
“Stupid accent, pushed into a door”
He stared and I stared back
“Show me one of yours”
He points at his hand
And a gash lays across it
Like a half moon
“Put my hand on a blade”
Then he suddenly looks up
Lifts his hand and points his index finger
To the left of my chest, straight to my heart
“Tell me about that scar”
But I’m confused, I’m silent for a second
What does he want to know?
I laugh
“There’s no scar there”
I say
He replies
“I know you’ve been hurt, you can see it in your eyes”
I wince in pain, how does he know
I gather up the energy to smile
Slowly shake my head
“That’s another story that I don’t think I should share”
I know he wants to know, but how can I say
Put all of that hurt and pain and love and life into one explanation
“You’d have to be me to understand”
He looks at me and cups my head
“I’m not going away, baby”
I draw away and choke back my tears
“You can’t promise me that”
Our scars are forever with us
I know he knows and I know you know
You can’t forget and you can’t explain
Scars are scars, and some of their stories
Shouldn’t be brought up and told again