Here's the thing about wounds. They take a long time to heal-- the deep bleeding gash subsides into a hard painful scab that hurts more than the actual wound did. It dries up-- it shrivels up slowly until one day you have to force yourself to pull it off gingerly to reveal fresh, pink skin inside. Remove it a minute too soon, the wound bleeds afresh so wait till the perfect time-- when it so dried up that it sinks back into its own self.
Wounds are painful and horrible, yes you get it. But what about scars? Those permanent blotches of ugliness that remain obstinately a part of your visage, reminding you off the ugliness that marr you? What about those blemishes that stare you back indifferently every time you look into the mirror? They don't hurt-- they just remind you off your foolishness, of your ugliness that you will try and cover up every single day. That terrible shame, that feeling of inadequacy will claw at your heart, will prick those salty glands in your eyes and make you want to cover your face so that the world can never see how desperately you fought, how ugly you really are. You'd rather take the wound-- you can blame the wound on someone else but the scars are just reminders of your foolishness-- your mistake, your badge of shame for the world.
You try and hide those scars-- those purple blotches that stare at you in the face everytime you take off your makeup and realize you are not beautiful. But then, someone comes into your life and begs you to see them-- see what you are behind that mineral makeup that promises you perfection and a blemish-free existence. You try and you cower and you hide. But then he comes and he holds your hand away from your face saying don't shield. You know he will know very soon that you are not beautiful and you panic-- don't you say. Just don't. Let me be. But he insists. And since you don't want to refuse him anything, you let go. He looks at you, tenderly removes traces of Beauty Balm cream with a cotton ball looking into your eyes the whole time. You almost let yourself relax-- his hand grazes yours and you feel the all-too-familiar electric current that pulsates through your body. But then you see it-- the quick flash of horror in his beady black eyes as dark circles emerge, stretch marks throb to the surface and those horrible scars-- those horrible horrible scars begin to breathe again, dark, purple and ugly, In that moment you know-- he doesn't want you, he doesn't like you and he never will. Fail yourself to be a 21st century autonomous woman that you like to think you are-- be the child who stood silently in submission as an ugly unkempt hand carressed your upper thigh.Fail yourself and be wounded and scarred for life.
Wounds are painful and horrible, yes you get it. But what about scars? Those permanent blotches of ugliness that remain obstinately a part of your visage, reminding you off the ugliness that marr you? What about those blemishes that stare you back indifferently every time you look into the mirror? They don't hurt-- they just remind you off your foolishness, of your ugliness that you will try and cover up every single day. That terrible shame, that feeling of inadequacy will claw at your heart, will prick those salty glands in your eyes and make you want to cover your face so that the world can never see how desperately you fought, how ugly you really are. You'd rather take the wound-- you can blame the wound on someone else but the scars are just reminders of your foolishness-- your mistake, your badge of shame for the world.
You try and hide those scars-- those purple blotches that stare at you in the face everytime you take off your makeup and realize you are not beautiful. But then, someone comes into your life and begs you to see them-- see what you are behind that mineral makeup that promises you perfection and a blemish-free existence. You try and you cower and you hide. But then he comes and he holds your hand away from your face saying don't shield. You know he will know very soon that you are not beautiful and you panic-- don't you say. Just don't. Let me be. But he insists. And since you don't want to refuse him anything, you let go. He looks at you, tenderly removes traces of Beauty Balm cream with a cotton ball looking into your eyes the whole time. You almost let yourself relax-- his hand grazes yours and you feel the all-too-familiar electric current that pulsates through your body. But then you see it-- the quick flash of horror in his beady black eyes as dark circles emerge, stretch marks throb to the surface and those horrible scars-- those horrible horrible scars begin to breathe again, dark, purple and ugly, In that moment you know-- he doesn't want you, he doesn't like you and he never will. Fail yourself to be a 21st century autonomous woman that you like to think you are-- be the child who stood silently in submission as an ugly unkempt hand carressed your upper thigh.Fail yourself and be wounded and scarred for life.
