every man has a past

Sometimes all you know about someone is they're perfect, and here's me with my scars and my past and I know it all, all the time. Forever. And sometimes I forget that I'm not the only one who can tell you every single story about them. How I got this scar when I was seven and playing with my sister. How I was always the one getting the scars from our stupid games. Sometimes I forget that sometimes the reason we're ashamed to be naked isn't because of our bodies but our scars.

She's asleep next to me in bed as I write this. I never noticed all of the little scars she has before--the ones on her back and arms and legs. The thing is I knew, on some level, that she had a past, she had a long life before we met. I know the stories everyone knows, the little failings she doesn't mind sharing with the world--the ones that are funny and don't make us look bad, but make us look human. The ones that make everyone else forget about the worse things we've done.

So we smile. The ones that don't fade, we cover up. You never ask. You pretend that all of the things you know are actually true. We pretend we're a happy couple that's perfect for each other, and honest and tells each other everything. But how can we be honest if there's so much we'll probably never say?