Judgment

What you have seen of me is skin deep.
And even then you still see only part of me.
Are my scars really all that matter to you?
Does it matter to you why they are there?
Do you understand they are part of my past?
They are something I cannot change.
Even if I could, I would keep them.
They are a part of my story.
I wouldn’t say I am proud of them,
but I have learned to no longer be ashamed.

These scars do not define me.
They have NEVER defined me,
not even when they were still bleeding wounds.
They may be a part of my story,
but they are not my life.
They are simply a fleeting chapter
in this novel known as my life.

You have never been as low as I was then.
But I know you have felt the same pain.
That bitter fear of rejection by those who should love you best.
It is childlike, this fear, but it remains.
And for some, like myself, it demands to be seen,
this simple cry for help.

A word for others like me:
There will always be those who do not understand.
They will make you feel like you are less than them.
Why? I cannot say for certain.
But it is because they do not understand that they judge.
Why would they not?

Aren’t we all just struggling toward the same truth?
Do we not all have the same need to belong?
Do we not all want to be loved?
And could you, who have never in lonely desperation
pressed a blade to your skin,
love someone like me?
Could someone so seemingly perfect
love someone so flawed?

Or am I just judging you as you did to me?
What is it you hide beneath it all?
Everyone has a secret.
Mine is visible.
What is yours?