One: The scar on my forehead from falling on a rock at Grandma’s.

Two: The scar on my cheek. Ma says a cat scratched me when I was little.

Three: It’s on my left knee. I’ve always wondered how it came to be.

Four, Five, Six: From shaving around my mouth

because I thought that’s what you were supposed to do.

Seven: A small cut on my right knee just to see what it was like to bleed.

Eight: A burn on my left arm that’s so faded, it’s like it was never even there.

Nine, Ten: On the creases of my mouth from sucking the plastic fun pop popsicles.

Scars cover my hips, my thighs, my breasts.

More scars dot my arms, my legs, my torso, my face, my hands.

I try to count the scars on my mind and heart.

One: Seeing my mother relapse again and again.

Two: The memory of scabs from itching my head so often.

Head Lice is hard to get rid of when you’re poor, it seems.

Three: Moving again and again and again.

Four: Refusing to cry because it doesn’t change anything.

Five: Seeing what a grown man’s penis looks like at eleven.

Six: Watching my brother slamming his head on the wall.

Seven: Observing my friend and his stepdad getting into a fistfight.

Eight: Sleeping in a living room with three other people.

Nine: Being left by my best friend.

Ten: Having my ex fall out of love with me.

It goes on and on and on. There are too many

to count. I am covered in scars.

For every scar you see,

there are dozens you don’t.

They may fade, but they’re never really gone.

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