I think I’ll name this scar after you.
Not because you put it there,
or had anything to do with it at all,
but because I like it.
I like the way it makes me feel
or, I suppose,
the way it helped me
to not feel.
Kind of he way that you
make everything else,
especially the bad
feelings and thoughts,
Just disappear.
I think it’s kind of pretty.
Even if everyone else
pulls on my wrist,
yanking my arm to better their view,
and with disgusted looks
tell me how ugly it is.
They lecture me
on how I could do better,
how I AM better
than this scar,
than you.
I put that scar there,
on the delicate skin,
of the inside of my arm.
Its a place kept warm
with obnoxious sweaters
at Christmas parties.
You’re my plus one,
but no one knows,
because you’re tucked
safely inside my sleeve.
It’s an intimate place,
soft and innocent,
that, excluding my “art”,
is unblemished.
It isn’t touched by the evil
that fills the world
and follows me home
after class at night.
Which reminds me
of that one time
that you walked me home.
I’m naming it after you,
because despite the ignorant
thoughts of people
that refuse to even try
and understand me,
skipping the handshake
that accompanies introductions
and the exchange of names,
skip straight to judgment,
and voiced opinions
of how bad this scar is,
how bad you are for me.
I can’t help but disagree.
I name it after you,
because this scar is part of me,
and it always will be.
So I don’t really care
if you’re temporary,
like the scars that fade,
because unlike them,
you won’t really ever go away.
I’m naming it after you
to show just how serious I am
about how you’ve affected me.
