Look through me and not at me.

I see you stare. I see you smile after a while because you like what you see. I see you hesitate and I know your not a jerk. I see you take a step forward and think ' uhuh '. I see you fidget as you make an attempt at small talk. I smile politely and respond naturally. I effortlessly decline your offer to take me out for dinner. I turn and walk away.
Look through me and not at me, I repeat.

Here's what you see if you look at me. You see a girl of about 5.4 feet tall (or short, whatever), with perfect eyebrows and dark brown eyes, gleaming as the smile from her lips reaches them. You see her dressed modestly which makes her look beautiful and cute yet hot at the same time. You see her stand with her shoulders firm and her back straight. You see something that's almost flawless.

But I ask you to look through me. Because it is then that you see the little scars that trace back to deep, painful wounds. You see the torment in those dark eyes, the hesitation in that dazzling smile. You see the effort that has gone into holding her back straight and her shoulders firm. You see the subtle little girl behind the veil of mascara and gloss. You see the true her. You see the true me. And she's far from being flawless. She's flawed. She's scarred. She's broken, but not beyond repair.

I declined your invitation to join you for dinner because I saw you look "at" me. I didn't want you to fall for what I appear to be, but for what I actually am. It's hard to love a broken person. I know because I've tried.

Little did I know that you were thinking way past a date and a night together. You were looking for a real relationship. You were looking for love. You were looking through me. And today, on our eighth anniversary, as I kiss you beneath the starless sky, I know that a little trust in yourself and your instincts is sometimes all you need to keep going.