Scars
Like most people, I have scars. I have many, many scars. I have visible scars. Scars from accidents, like the one on my left knee the size of a nickel, where I fell at my cousin's house and a sapling stump jammed itself through the skin and under my kneecap. It's still indented and the bone is chipped. I have other scars from situations I couldn't really control, or maybe shouldn't have been in. I've got a burn scar on my upper left arm that matches about eight other peoples'. I have a scar that starts just behind my left shoulder on my back and runs, thin and long, across that shoulder and almost to my arm. Scars created purposely, scars from accidents, scars I can't even remember getting. There are the scars on my hands and arms, too. Those scars are silent witnesses. They are the ghosts of anger and pain past. Some are from punching brick walls, punching through glass, and other similar experiences. Some are simply self-inflicted, with knife or glass or...