The Scars We Cover Up

He was a true craftsman, a poet, an author, his mastery of words was his charm, and he was a true reflection of self-confidence. He had style, class and determination that reflected through in that all he did.
He had come from a broken home, with a torn heart, horrific images of his father strangling his mother, hence he breathed hopelessness, his blood boiled with rage and his stomach had endured hunger pains as “daddy” drowned in another green bottle.
As he randomly chatted up random ladies and often was complimented for his charisma, optimism and sense of humor, no one ever noticed the scars in his heart, covered by godly designed ribs and flesh, and a perfectly peaceful smile.

She had a million dollar body, shaped like an hourglass, timeless, and a billion dollar walk to compliment it. She had a perfectly cheerful smile, bright and beautiful, and her confidence could move mountains, or so most people thought.
She had been blessed with a baby, and simultaneously cursed with a clumsy operation that cut almost half of her stomach off, it was now a scar, but still a fresh wound to her that bled uncontrollably every single night she uncovered her expensive garment.

She had a perfect life, so he thought.
He had a perfect life, so she thought.