Yah, they’re on your arms
and your legs
and other easier-to-hide spots,
But to the girl with the scars:
You’re more beloved than you know.
I know you wish you could live inside your sleeves
so they wouldn’t have to show,
But when I hug you, I’m not hugging
around your scars.
I don’t elevate them or love them more than you.
I don’t love your scars, I love you.
I don’t praise your scars but I don’t ignore them either.
What’s a country without a history?
What’s a song without a build?
Every flower that blossoms first curls itself away,
and I anticipate your blossoming.
You’re the most beautiful orchid;
you’re a choir of daffodils
singing yellow songs on the prairie,
you’re more beloved than you know.