A reflection of the true meaning of scars.

 He says, through his perfectly positioned specs, that he will try his best to make it minimal, but I do not really care. It is not my first, and only God knows if it will be my last.

 My first is what’s left of the monster that accompanied me between my mother’s legs and into this mean world, a Hemangioma I think they called it.

 Hardened, tempered steel glides with precision across the flesh. I welcome it with open arms, unlike many who subject themselves to sand paper, light beams, and various pharmaceutical concoctions, found in a tube or syringe. This one will show defeat again, cancer; genetics can be so cruel sometimes and I can only laugh at my luck.

Mere stupidity, sibling rivalry, or drunken adventure, I smile as I reminisce; however, it is all not amusing. Severe pain ceases to exist as the one made by my best friend slowly seals my most vital organ. He did not mean to do it; love just happens that way sometimes.

A mother’s love decorates my lower abdominals and breasts with pride.What does she know, my own mother? “Don’t pick at that!” she warned. I couldn’t help it, maybe I should have listened, but it wasn’t the first.

 Ivory liquid base, my favorite jeans, long sleeves, and a carefully positioned choker do the trick, but then I am like everyone else in a chain of paper dolls. Perfection lacks personality I keep telling myself.

I rip off my clothes, naked and vulnerable, I look away from my reflection, and then, I count.  It’s not the number that matters; it’s the dialogue between friends, or strangers. The perfect conversation starter, it’s a natural part of the healing process. I shudder as I picture myself without them, damaged, broken, or even....