I’m jealous of those with smooth skin, not on their faces but everywhere else.

Clean flesh, delicate, never maimed.

My scars tell a story that I’d prefer to delete.

And unlike the spirit that intensifies, gets wiser and more vigilant with its wounds, bodies are lazy.

Destroy it once, it will never be perfect again.

All you children with the lines, marks, nicks and perfectly aligned holes.

The skin at the scene of the attacks trying way too hard to appear innocent, way too pallid to be natural.

Believe me, I know.

You can’t even remember how you gave yourself that scar but it still itches and glares an angry red.

Your sneaky body has you twitching on the left when you know the scars are on the exact same spot on the right.

All of you whose pupils widen in disbelief and you flinch at the sight of our skin, please pretend it’s natural.

I have natural scars too.

At six, I jumped off a gate. My face hit the pavement and soaked it red. A thin white bridge still lays sprawled against my forehead, only visible when I ache with anger.

At ten, I cracked my wrist in half. I am reminded of my forever damaged bone when it rains, or when I strum my guitar for some time.

At fourteen I had shingles. White clumsy patches are still scattered on my stomach.

But the difference is that the intentional scars bring emotional torment too.

They agonize me, revolt me, prompt my emotions, memories beliefs and urges.

It’s a fight.

Don’t finger them. Scratch them. Don’t look. Trace them with marker. Drink up photos of self-harm. Cover up. Hurt some more.

They scream at me. From someplace deep inside.

They remind me of all the times I kept things in and bled them out.

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