damn, that hurt, but thats okay, i'll wipe the blood away. all my previous wounds have hardened and regenerated into new skin, while some disappear as fast as they came, others leave a scar. hmm, i can cover it with skin coloured pigment i put on my face, or drown it in peroxide to coax it away—
"why?"
because i don't want people to see—
to see how hard i've worked with nothing to show for it. all the pain i've endured without any reward. they ask me:
"why do you have scars on your hands?"
and the answer lingers in my throat
you thought it was—
"just a lump"
but that lump is 16 years of hidden failure, failure i cannot bear to tell anyone about so i smile and keep my mouth shut. i beat my face with powder to dry out last nights tears. i wear clothes big enough to fit my despair but the only thing i cannot hide are those damn—
"scars"
scars.
