I apologize for the scars upon your skin;
the bruises on your legs make you look clumsy,
I wonder how hard you had to hit
for them to look like small galaxies trying to hide the pain.
I feel bad for your small hands and bleeding knuckles,
but sometimes I can hear the walls cry and shake in fear,
and when your fists meet the concrete
this home weeps for hours.
I wonder how long you will hide your wrists;
for the scars underneath your shirt have led me to your heart,
they were the maps to your soul;
but you are ashamed of the wars you have lost
and you forget that there were victories, too.
I cry when I see you lay still upon the ground,
lifeless and silent;
I wish I could talk to you and say that you are enough,
but I have used up my words for the wrong people;
I wish I could tell you that I love you and all of your scars
but how do I say it, if I have lost my tongue.
I apologize for the scars upon your body;
but whatever you do,
and I’ll breathe with you.