They won’t love you for the freckles on your nose, the seven different laughs that you have, the journals that you kept three years ago or the body that you’ve beaten and bruised so hard into shape. They look past the scar on the side of your nose that looks a whole lot like a freckle. They won’t know that you actually ran into a freshly sharpened pencil on accident in third grade. They won’t ask about the scars that are on your kneecaps. They won’t know that they’re from falling down the steps of a tree house when you were nine years old. They won’t understand that these are two of just a handful of things you can remember about your childhood. They’ll miss the vein on your hand that’s in the shape of a heart. They’ll also miss the smile that creeps on your face every time someone notices it, too. They might notice that you have a nice body, but they miss that you braid your hair when you’re nervous. They won’t know you even get nervous. They won’t ask about the story you spent so long writing today, so they’ll never know that it was true. They will love your taste in music, your wittiness, your sarcasm, but miss that you never turn to them, but rather to a long drive or a shower to cry. They won’t know that you actually hate the very things about yourself that they tell you they love every day