she never looks around
or talks out of turn
sits alone
and seems to mourn
she acts like this
all the time
sure, she has friends
she's one of mine
she sleeps at my house
where she finally opens up
where she realizes that she is loved
in between the mean girls' giggles
and accusing stares, they attempt
to figure out the story of the scarred
"maybe she's in a gang"
"maybe she's psychotic"
though they try to decode us, they'll
never know the story
of the scarred
they'll never know how she shakes, the tears she cries or the sound she makes
they'll never understand
why she hides her smile
i work so hard to see
the way she loves the night
yet hates the dark
they'll never get why her hair hides her face or the make up she wears to hide her disgrace
the secret of the scarred
is a valuable thing
not know by most and
understood by less
the story is the scars that cover her face and arms, the bruises and marks that forever tattoo her back
she sits alone
never talks out of turn
to her, my strength i loan