Why do people look at me like I am only skin deep?
I am not the dried over scab on my forearm, or the scar on my hip.
Stop assuming you know my story by the lines on my wrists.
These lines are disconnected, jagged, and broken;
They are lost words, fragment sentences, nonsense.
These lines cannot be read as a story.
My humor, my loyalty, my intelligence, my hopes, my friendships, are all lost in this broken translation.
My body is the worn cover of a book, weathered from use, but it still holds a story inside.
Look past these imperfections.
I am not only skin deep.