Dear lover,

I am a scarred person. I have scars all over my body, some left by the person who used to whip me with a belt because he enjoyed seeing me writhe in pain, and some left by the blade that is my only companion during lonely winter nights. But do not tell me that they do not make me beautiful. They do. Men have always been so proud of the scars that battles left on their bodies, as if scars were units on the scale braveness was measured on. My scars talk about my battles. Each scar talks about a time I was too strong to give up. The scars left by the whip on my back talk about the times I bit my lower lip a little too hard when the hard leather belt crackled against my flesh, so that I won’t scream from the pain. And the ones on my wrist and thighs talk about every night that seemed like a storm that would never end, but I didn’t give up. They make me brave. They make me beautiful.


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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