These marks... windows on wounds that tell a tale, weave a history on me that cannot be erased. Skin's interruptions... hemming in the broken places, where blood gushed out. Places where I stop and stare, remember where the pain came in... uninvited.
Some are hidden from your view, others, I can't hide from you. Every day I wear their marks, milky white against my skin, where pain came in.
We can meet and who can say what goes through your mind that day, when eyes first meet their queer distraction... should I speak, or you take action? I don't know, but either way, it matters.
Do I look up from self-absorption long enough to see the skin that you are in and recognize how much we share? Do I? ... cross the chasm of my fear long enough to let you hear my story...
Am I?... faithful with these marks I bear, on soul or skin, to let you in, recounting reasons they are there?
Am I?... still with breath to tell the tale, thankful for the Life that did not fail to rescue me?
Will I?... risk the ridicule He bore, to keep alive an open door He made for me...
Opportunity.
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