I told him...
"Pretty girls don't have scars,"
And I cried.
With a finger under my chin,
He made me look into his eyes.
He told me that's what makes me beautiful
And kissed every tear
And every scar.
I wish I could believe him
But years of self-hate has broken me.
Will I ever see the truth is his words?
Or have I become too addicted to these scars.
Guide that inspired this poem:
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Wow I you are beautiful just like your poetry :)
What a dream that'd be. Scars are such a hard thing to deal with, but having someone saying/doing those things would make me completely forget about them.