I always hated when people would look at my scars,
With a look of regret.
Giving me a look of
“I should’ve been there”
But that was then,
They are healed
And permanent reminders of my past.
He doesn’t look at them that way.
He looks at them with pain in his eyes,
Like it hurts him to think I was ever so alone,
That I sliced my own arm open.
I used to hate the way people looked at my scars,
That is until he looked at them,
And saw the person I am,
And not just the story they tell.