Scars

The scars on your wrist remind me of the places you’ve been.
they tell me of the trips you take when you’re sitting next to me,
holding my hand,
lost in a time that I’ve never known.
…will never know.
My fingers trace the memories that haunt your past
like the roads of a map
so that I may find you and be the safety net that drags you back to reality;
back to me.

The scars on your wrist are a neon sign hung outside an empty motel just off the highway,
flashing “needs love” over and over again.
A subliminal message stamped permanently on my brain so that,
“I love you”
feels like my first language.

They are an indication of a strength not found in a gym,
of a strength found only in your soul,
and of a heart that could bench press the weight of the world

The scars on your wrist are a warning label to, “handle with care”
and a cautionary measure for those not willing to fight their way in
to stay at least 10 feet away.

They remind me to never stop searching for an eraser
big enough to wipe away the pain
and then toss it aside.
Because the very pain that lurks and lingers behind your eyes
is not who you are
but is the very essence of who you have become.
and I am in love with who you have become.
And erasers are better left for paper.

The scars remind me to always embrace the darkness underneath your light.

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