There are too many scars to count.
One here.
One there.
I stare.
And no one can compare.
I remember how each one came.
They have tags.
Like labels.
Telling each ones story.
Who.
What.
When.
Where.
Why.
Tears come to my eyes.
As I read my lies of to why I wear the scars.
The past I carry has a happy marry to all of my laughs.
But the cries always have a way to be sly to all those lies.
Who knows why I subject myself to the sorrow of tomorrow.
But I do even if I do not have the say of what I choose.
Who knew I could be this askew.
But I new.
It was to good to be true.