I remember earnestly exposing my scars for the first time. I was merely 13 years old, naive with illusions of sincere love. We sat in a blank room filled with instruments. His music thickened the air; each note enticed me further into our young infatuation.
After each song we would have sober confessions. I openly admitted my most troubling vice. He asked if he could see the flesh proof of my self hatred. Without hesitation I rolled up my sleeve and stretched my arm out toward his open hands. My palm faced the ceiling as my cheeks grew rosy with shame.
He removed one hand from my arm and touched my cheek, forcing me to gaze at those metallic grey eyes. Without breaking eye contact he put two fingers onto the two inch scab. His eyes swelled with tears as he said, "It breaks my heart that you feel such intense pain that you're driven to hurt yourself like this."
He had such a deep sense of compassion towards me and it dwelled in him for no reason other than the Holy Spirit inside his heart.
He was the vessel God used to hold my arm steady as He ran two fingers across my scars, calling me redeemed.
Yours until the pigs fly,
Alessondra Marie
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