I used to hate them, you know. When I stripped in front of a mirror and saw nothing but crisscrossed welts covering my body, I used to hate them. When people noticed the scars on my wrist and asked me if I have had a break up, I used to hate them, because I had never even been in a relationship. I hated them, and since they were all over my body, I hated it. And I hated myself. But a few years later, when I was battling with bouts of depression, and desperately trying to fall in love, I realized that no one would love me until I myself did. But then, I was not lovable. I had no reason to be loved. So, I decided to turn the thing I hated most about myself into the thing I loved most. I started loving the scars, and along with them, myself. The scars no longer looked ugly when I stood naked in front of the mirror. They now seemed so much like the Rangoli that we make during the festive season, to decorate the floor, and make the house look beautiful. I was the house. The house that had walls so strong that no storm could destroy it. And I was beautiful.
Since you have fallen in love with me after knowing about the scars, do not tell me that they do not make me beautiful. They do. Love me with them, but not because of them. And if you can, trace the scars with your fingers when I am asleep. They are the untrodden roads that will guide you to my soul.
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