My scars and stretch marks have never bothered me. In fact, I once considered them badges of survival. Reminders of lessons learned. Then this happened:
He kissed my scars.
My head hang low in shame. My eyes looked away in fear. I told my secret of how those three fading scars came to be. He didn’t judge me. He never recoiled from our intimacy. He wiped the tear off my cheek and kissed my scarred arm.
The light was dim but I could see his eyes as his finger traced the dull stretch marks on my thigh. He didn’t turn away. He didn’t search for a more perfect spot. He slowly kissed the trail his finger blazed.
Nervously biting my lip in anticipation exposed the scar that most never see. Right below my mouth, the keeper of my stories, the mark of memories from girlhood. He saw it. He felt it. He kissed it.
I look at my scars differently now. They are the illustrations to my autobiography. They are the hieroglyphics of my ancient history. The secrets of my essence. The imperfections that make me…me.
How do you see your scars?