As we made love, our scars met,
grazing long enough for mine to say
“He tries to hide me,”
and for yours to reply
“I know I embarrass her.”
“He never learned how to swim,” whispered my scar.
“She got picked last in gym class,
then cried into her pillow,” replied yours.
Just then, a huge wound opened in me.
You touched it. It closed.
I was filled, fully healed, and I knew
I would never be able not to love you.