"How are you?" they ask, stroking your arm. They see
"How are you?" they ask, stroking your arm.
They see the scars. They know why they're there. They don't
like it any more than you do.
You shrug off the smiles and the questions. "I'm
fine." A thousand other answers spring to your
tongue, begging to leap out into the air. "I'm still
hurting", "I need to know it's okay to cry",
"I need to know why you say such cruel things about the man I
love[d]", "I loved him once. And i still love him. And i
will ALWAYS love him.", "What do you do, when you've
found your happily ever after, but someone else slammed the door
shut in your face?", but most pressing of all...
"Do you believe in life after love?"
You stare into the mirror, when the guests have come and gone, the
wine drunken, the bread broken. You stare at your eyes and your
nose and your lips and remind yourself that someone once loved not
just the body you wear, but also the mind and heart and spirit and
soul inside. You stare at yourself and smile. You know the