Language of Scars

Reads: 157  | Likes: 0  | Shelves: 0  | Comments: 1

More Details
Status: Finished  |  Genre: Poetry  |  House: Booksie Classic

Submitted: March 22, 2017

A A A | A A A

Submitted: March 22, 2017



You wear too many layers of clothing.

I see you pant and perspire, and when I ask you to at least take off your jacket, you do so despite your hesitation, to which I smile and say it is your courage I mostly admire. 

You say you are exhausted, tired. 

So I pull out a chair and you sit down, eyes bloodshot, thoughts tangled and doing some thinking of their own, and you say how your thoughts have caused you nothing but pain, that they have only wounded you so now you have wounded them, but then you go quiet and look down at your styrofoam cup, afraid once again of being used, mistreated, misunderstood, thinking that at least coffee cups are inanimate objects, incapable of judgement or betrayal, but then you somehow push through this fear and look up. 

This is when our eyes meet, and for the first time I truly see you. 

It's all in the eyes, they say, and when I gaze into yours I see impatient tears clinging to your eyelashes, a million unspoken words on the verge of a fatal leap, and I picture you perched upon the clouds, crying, and I running in circles down below catching all your tears, letting each one cling to my skin like rain drops, but I know that you are ashamed, scared, terrified, and I say it is okay, for I too carry with me a burden indivisible to the naked eye, and then your lips quiver and you cry. 

At last you cry. 

Then you roll up your sleeve and put your arm down on the table, and I see the patterns you have etched into your skin, the scars that may never fade away, a testament to how little you say you believe in yourself, and the whole process of cutting, you also say, is somehow cathartic, a temporary relief from pain, for at least now you have a reason to be in pain. 

Perhaps now your suffering will be visible to those outside the void.

I roll up my sleeves and put both arms on the table, implying that it is your turn to analyze my scars, but then you smile and say, no, it is not about analysis, for how can one analyze a type of pain that defies logic and reason, a type of psychological pain so unbearable that one's mind suddenly ceases to work, and I say true, that maybe you and I are both stuck in perpetual midlife crisis at the age of twenty-three, that because we cannot see the beauty in ourselves, all we can do is remind the other person of their own beauty, projecting, I guess, so that we can live just another day. 

And then we do. 
And so we empathize.
And so we understand. 

I see a smile creeping its way onto your face. I see you looking down and playing with your hair. I see a thousand little angels dangling from the twirls of your hair. I see your fingers touching my scars. I see your scar turning into an open mouth, and I see how your words come pouring out and make their way to my ears, and so we just let our scars talk in our stead, for it seems that scars make for terrible liars. 

And what we desire now more than anything else is honesty. 

And so here we are, two friends on the edge of the blade, unable to see that we have been blessed by all the beauties one could ask for, and so I  turn into a mirror, reflecting what you are, who you are, reflecting all the things you cannot see, hoping that some day you will see what I see, and all I ask in return is that once in a while, if my surface gets dusty, wipe it down with a gentle touch, and even if you have already given up on yourself, know that I will never give up on you. 

So hold on, take it one step at a time, one breath at a time, and let me be the mirror always reminding you how beautiful you truly are. 

© Copyright 2018 Mahan1372. All rights reserved.

Add Your Comments:


More Poetry Short Stories