This is dedicated to everyone who has had scars. May you wear those scars proudly. <3

Safe In My Own Skin

by valdec_

The bumps on my skin were once scars. They were scars I have never explained to anyone—but here I was, holding them high up in the air for him to see. There were lots of them—small white scars that covered my wrist. They were once cuts I wish I have never opened at all…they were once wounds that I thought I already closed.

They joined the monsters under my bed—those disgusting creatures that mess me up in my head—but somehow, through a passage of time, they had managed to creep out to greet me, reminding me they were there. They had stayed for me to remember them.

They had done that—time and time again—and I always have found myself kicking them to the little curb until I managed to drag them back into the closet yet again.

I hated them on my skin—fervently wishing for them to disappear—but how can one get rid of some vile thing she had brought upon herself? And so, I let them be—watched these wounds turn into bumpy, ugly scar marks on my taut skin.

***

I used to cut myself open.

I would do it on Sundays when everyone scheduled themselves to meet their Creator. I picked those Sundays carefully. It had to be sunny—birds chirping in the background and people being happy minding their own business—because I figured that the Creator would most likely not be as busy as he is when the skies howl their anger and people are up in each other's faces.

After all, it was so much easier meeting him on his designated day of the week, right?

That was certainly what I thought back then. But every time I try in vain to meet up with Him, the more I was put into this huge, dank hole so closeted that I had to tuck my knees to my chest when I rock myself.

Moments in that huge, dank hole were my spurts of euphoria. My senseless rocking and fidgeting kept me preoccupied, busy…sane. It allowed me to escape and go to my happy place. It would always be at the beach—where the deep blue waters rolled and a man with this distinct smile would wave at me, urging me to join his headlong freedom.

But those little bursts of exhilaration would always stop. I would always be robbed of my euphoria and of my freedom.

They would always pull me out of that huge, dank hole.

Every time I was pushed into that hole, this very bright light would penetrate my eyes and greet me. But it wasn't before long when I realized it wasn't heaven's welcoming door—no, it was not that at all.

It was far from that as I always find myself waking up to flickering lights reflecting on the hospital's white floor. I would scream then, contort my body in agony as I try to pull all those tubes attached to my body. Those screams, groans, shouts were my unending litany, I was begging for life to abandon me but here they all were—these beautiful and kind-hearted people—trying to give me my life back.

I was tired of life, you see. It batters a person to a pulp, and here I was racing with it, doing everything I can to beat life in its own game.

Death was supposed to be my reward and yet its spoils became my scars.

***

And here I was,

and there he is,

lying beside me as he watched me raise my hand, wrists out and palms up, as I tried to cover my eyes from the blinding rays of this sunny afternoon.

"I wanted to show you these," I whispered, head turning as I met my gaze with his. And there it was. That look when I start to be open to someone about these bumpy and ugly scar marks on my skin. He had the same look as all the others when they saw these scars.

I knew that look. It was of unadulterated fear—half-suppressed and half-obvious—but it was there all the same. Whenever I see that look, I stop even before I can explain myself.

They all ran away, anyway.

And he will, too.

What was I thinking? That some doe-eyed handsome man would want to listen to my story? If this story was a distress to my own ears itself, he must absolutely think I was plucked out straight from hell.

***

I was actually wrong.

***

And here I was,

and there he is,

turning on his side to slide his delicate hands to gently caress that bumpy expanse of flesh on my wrist, and asking—ever so gently, "Do they still hurt?"

"Not anymore." I shook my head, wanting to say more, when he put a gentle finger on my lips to silence me with a solemn smile. "I used to—" I started to say but it was his turn to shake his head.

He dropped kisses on my head, my face, my neck.

He even kissed all t