Scars

She wears them like a badge,
Like a medal of honor,
Like a backstage pass
That gets her into forbidden, VIP places.

He hides his under long sleeves,
Sweaters carefully chosen to avoid
Showing an unusual crease along the back.
No one will ever see them, he vows.

She'd be happy to tell you, if you asked,
Which ones were given to her by her father with the end of a cigarette,
Which ones were given to her by an ex-boyfriend with a broken beer bottle,
And which ones she gave herself.

He'll hope you don't notice, but if you do,
If you happen to glance as he changes for PE,
He'll say it was a long ago car accident
And leave you to decipher the lie.

Hers cover her between bruises,
Up her neck just under her short dyed hair,
Down to the goth rings she wears on her fingers,
Down to places no one should see.

His are fewer, but just as precious,
Lines of a belt that has long since departed,
Newer, bolder bruises from mother's second husband,
And the few on his wrists he hides like secret treasure.

Sometimes she does it for art,
Looking to see where the raised white flesh
Would perfectly complement the others.
Sometimes she does it in earnest.

He just holds the razorblade to his skin,
Looking somewhere else as he presses down hard
And hopes that this time
It results in more blood than scar.

She will eventually give up her recklessness,
In love with a boyfriend who prefers abusing self to lover,
And she'll take up his habit and give herself
The scars of needles and wait for an overdose.

He will succeed on a warm, clear spring day,
And no one will know why,
And no one will look beyond the scars they can see
To those they can't.