I Have a Scar
I've posted this before...but the experience isn't quite so much about the scar than it is how I feel about my scar, the ones people see...and the ones they can't. I felt I needed to make certain aspects of this experience clearer.
I have a scar on the top of my right hand.
I try not to look at it because every time I do, something inside me stings, it hurts.
When I was in 6th grade, I was walking home and I saw a girl from one of my classes, my neighborhood, who I had a crush on. She was arguing with two 8th grade boys at the elementary school we all used to go to years before. Since school was over for the day, there was nobody there but us. All of a sudden, the two boys reached out to grab her. She pulled away and started to scream. I started running toward her, I didn't even think about what I was going to do. I wanted to stop it. I wanted to help...protect....save her.
I jumped into the air and launched myself at the boy that had her arm, knocking both him down and his bike. His friend just laughed. She started running. I got up with my back to her, to keep him from going after her. The boy got up, reached into his pocket, pulled out a switchblade, and lunged it at my face. I blocked it with my right hand. It was not a deadly cut, but it bled.
He put it back in his pocket and said, "Fat, hopeless little f-----s get their d----s cut off when they stick 'em where they don't belong." They rode away laughing while I walked away bleeding.
Six years later, that girl and I both graduated from high school. Maybe she was proud that day. If she was, she would have a hard time saying it because her jaw was broken two weeks earlier by her ex con boyfriend. When she walked up to the podium to get her diploma, I remember thinking I was surprised he didn't use his switchblade to mark her like the animal that he was.
At the time, it destroyed me deep down thinking she chose someone who got more pleasure in hurting her than somebody like me, a man whose true love to her was rejected and deemed undesirable.
She had told me in high school that I "wasn't her type". I heard through others that she had referred to me as a "smart marshmallow" man.
I feel so crushingly lonely sometimes.
I look at that scar and wish, hope, wonder, if a woman will look at that scar and instead of flinch (like I always do), she'll take my hand and kiss it, caress the scar. She won't have to say or even think it's beautiful, but she won't be afraid of it, or the other scars I carry.
She'll look at my faults, my damage, my scars and she'll take a chance on me.
That lonely little boy who became a lonely damaged man won't have to be lonely anymore.
I'll make a promise to love her until the end of my days or the End Of Days...whichever comes first.
I have a scar on the top of my right hand.
I try not to look at it because every time I do, something inside me stings, it hurts.
When I was in 6th grade, I was walking home and I saw a girl from one of my classes, my neighborhood, who I had a crush on. She was arguing with two 8th grade boys at the elementary school we all used to go to years before. Since school was over for the day, there was nobody there but us. All of a sudden, the two boys reached out to grab her. She pulled away and started to scream. I started running toward her, I didn't even think about what I was going to do. I wanted to stop it. I wanted to help...protect....save her.
I jumped into the air and launched myself at the boy that had her arm, knocking both him down and his bike. His friend just laughed. She started running. I got up with my back to her, to keep him from going after her. The boy got up, reached into his pocket, pulled out a switchblade, and lunged it at my face. I blocked it with my right hand. It was not a deadly cut, but it bled.
He put it back in his pocket and said, "Fat, hopeless little f-----s get their d----s cut off when they stick 'em where they don't belong." They rode away laughing while I walked away bleeding.
Six years later, that girl and I both graduated from high school. Maybe she was proud that day. If she was, she would have a hard time saying it because her jaw was broken two weeks earlier by her ex con boyfriend. When she walked up to the podium to get her diploma, I remember thinking I was surprised he didn't use his switchblade to mark her like the animal that he was.
At the time, it destroyed me deep down thinking she chose someone who got more pleasure in hurting her than somebody like me, a man whose true love to her was rejected and deemed undesirable.
She had told me in high school that I "wasn't her type". I heard through others that she had referred to me as a "smart marshmallow" man.
I feel so crushingly lonely sometimes.
I look at that scar and wish, hope, wonder, if a woman will look at that scar and instead of flinch (like I always do), she'll take my hand and kiss it, caress the scar. She won't have to say or even think it's beautiful, but she won't be afraid of it, or the other scars I carry.
She'll look at my faults, my damage, my scars and she'll take a chance on me.
That lonely little boy who became a lonely damaged man won't have to be lonely anymore.
I'll make a promise to love her until the end of my days or the End Of Days...whichever comes first.
