Scarred

My scars cut me and run deep

Criss-crossing my back

Ruining my arms and legs

And scarring my beautiful face.

But this I prefer to the old way,

Where every lie left no physical mark

But every lie left a scar on the mind,

Disfiguring sanity

Line by line

And causing chaos

In the minds of liars.

And why have sympathy for them?

You ask.

As if ‘them’ was someone else.

And not us all.