There are scars on my hips
Mixed with stretch marks
Ones that I put there late at night
Touched by dirty hands
He says I'm beautiful
His hands outlay plains
Of wheat and new beginnings
Where they meet my hips
Of scars that will gently seep
Into my stretch marks that I hide
He doesn't kiss the scars I've made
Because they are from those times
That don't deserve to be kissed
But he kisses the stretch marks
They are apart of me he says
And he loves to love on those parts
Even if I quietly hate them