I have exactly 5 scars on my left hand.
All of them have a story to tell with a lesson to remember.
Honestly, I cherish all of them equally.
Once, I wanted to hide them from the world
but now, I flaunt them instead.
- The one on my antecubital fossa
Of the time I had just learned how to ride a bicycle and decided to flutter around on my 2 wheeler-friend with insufficient caution.
I remember falling down in front of a construction house because of a large stone I hadn’t seen.
That stone marked the delicate space in the bridge of my arm so sharply, the scar refuses to fade even 6 years later.
One would think it reminds me of the pain I had experienced that day.
Only, it is a souvenir of the first time I had fallen down and gotten up myself, without anyone else’s help.
It tells me I got up then and that I’ll get up again. - The first one’s closest neighbour
Of the time my mother clutched my hand so tightly out of anger, digging her long nails in my flesh because I had answered back to her.
I don’t remember what had happened that day but I do remember the way she called it funny and laughed at it instead of apologizing when I confronted her later.
One would think it reminds me of the anger I have now locked away (loosely in case it needs to show itself).
Only, it is a souvenir of the first time I had stood up for myself instead of waiting for a knight in shining armour like my fairy-tales had told me to.
It tells me I was enough and I will always be enough. - The one sitting on my opisthenar
Of the time I had just finished reading a very captivating fantastical tale of a female assassin and had grown obsessed with her scars and the tales they had lived.
Drenched in awe, I decided I would give myself a little scar too so I could make multiple, unconventionally cool origin stories and share them with anyone who would care to listen.
It has started fading now.
One would think it reminds me of the innocent stupidity I had embraced that day.
Only, it tells me my life is in my hands and I can write my own story in whichever way I want to. - The identical ones on the back of my lower arm
Of the time I was playing with my dog, Moon and she jumped on me not realizing her nails had scratched my skin.
I remember how she had licked my face profusely afterwards as if to apologize.
She has been very considerate from then on.
One would think it reminds me of the negative consequences of playing with an overactive 3months old pup.
Only, it is a souvenir of the love I have for her and the change she instantly adopted after that incident.
It tells me that everyone has the ability to positively change for the ones they love.
I have always hated my body but these days, above all other emotions, I feel grateful for it.
It is my shelter and has kept me protected in a time as deadly as right now.
It is a map in itself, of all the places I’ve been and the marks they have left on me.
It is an artist and is constantly feeding my art.
It is mortal, yes, but it is my home.
And I could not have asked for a better one:)
