Scars

There's a scar on the knuckles of my right hand.

I punched a brick wall outside the hospital repeatedly the night my brother died, preferring to be angry rather than grief-stricken. Angry enough to break my own hand.

There's a scar on my left shoulder blade, stretching from one side to the other.

I was pushed into a barbed wire fence the first time I went to prison. That's how I met my girlfriend--she picked me up and made sure I made it to the infirmary.

There's a scar on my hip, right where my belt sits.

I was shoved back into a Dumpster outside the nightclub where I used to work when a guy tried to rape me because of my sexuality.

There's a web of scars on my stomach, across my lower ribs and extending all the way to my belly button.

I tried to bleed to death when I was fourteen, after my mother said that gays deserved to die. I never did get up the courage to tell her.

There's a scar on my collarbone, stretching across my neck like a thin, discolored choker.

I tried to hang myself when I was sixteen, after the girl of my dreams said that people like me were disgusting and she would never even consider being friends with one. I lost my best friend that day.

There's a scar on my shin that still aches when it rains.

I was shot in my lower leg in a gang fight when I was on a marijuana run. After my leg healed to where I could use it again, I was arrested for possession of controlled substances and an illegal handgun. The sister of the man I killed that day visited me all the time in prison. We still keep in touch.

There's a smudge of lipstick on my forehead from when my girlfriend kissed me this morning.

I know that my scars will last longer than that smudge of lipstick. I know that the happiness I've found in my life right now probably won't last. But I'm choosing to focus on the smudge of lipstick rather than the scars, because every time I look at my reflection , I know that somehow, it'll be okay in the end.

Author's Note: I don't know where this came from. I was in an odd mood.