If I asked you to look into my eyes and to tell me what do you see, would you be honest? Would you say you see the scars on my skin, or would your eyes go past them—would you say you see the bruises, or would you call me beautiful?
What does it take for you to be honest? Can't your eyes see by itself—or do I've to feed you the words of the struggle I'm living every day.
Don't you feel it when you touch me? Dont you feel the tremor my hands go through when you lay your fingers on me. Can't you see I fear your touch—not you. And still you go past it and lay your hands on the rest of my body. You would still call me beautiful, but it doesn't work this time. I know I'm not. I want you to be honest to me and to tell me what do you see. I need to hear you say you don't mind the scars— the injuries on me. I want you to make me trust—trust that you won't leave like all of the ones before you. Mahmoud Elhadary