Scared Skin

I miss wearing tank tops while out in the sun. I miss wearing cute little sun dresses without having to worry. I miss wearing little shorts that go above my knees. I miss being able to wear whatever I wanted without feeling insecure about it. Without having to worry if people are looking at my arm or looking at my thigh. People are talking or whispering about my skin that isn’t smooth anymore.

Are they looking at me and giving me their pity? Are they thinking what could have happened to this poor girl for her to do that? I always wonder what people are thinking when I finally build up the courage of wearing a tank top at work when it’s +20 degrees inside the store. or when I wear a skirt that’s one inch too short.

I can tell by the looks on their faces that they can see them, they can see the deep set scars in my skin. They can see the pain I went through showing on my sleeve, the deep thoughts that was spilled out onto my thigh. The paint of pity is brushed across their face like heavy oil paint on a canvas. They try to give a reassuring smile but it’s not thick enough to ignore the sorrow in their eyes about me, they give a nod to say hello but I can see the shake of their head as they pass me.

When I don’t cover my arms or legs while I’m out in public I feel like I’m walking around naked. They can see my thoughts, read my mind like words on a piece of paper. They’re able to look into my past, see through my eyes in the present and know my future. I want to be able to be happy again and walk around like nothing is wrong with me anymore, I’m fixed, I’m all better. But everyone who looks at the lines on my skin know that I’m not fixed, and I’m not all better.

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