scars

I don’t try to hide it,
It’s there for anyone to see:
Frankenstein’s monster-esque suture scars
Inside my right wrist

Would I do it again?
I hope not,
but know better than to
make promises I
can’t know I’ll keep

There are others, too
Mostly crowded on my
left arm because
I’m right handed
and it was easier that way

Some look like a
game of tic-tac-toe
sans paper & pen

Others are raised,
thick, like slugs attached
to me — or better yet,
leeches

When someone asks me about them,
they’re surprised by
the nonchalant manner
in which I speak of them,
of how they came to be
But I’m not squeamish and
regret is a waste of energy

I’m here, now,
right?
Well, the past of which I speak
got me here
so I’m unapologetic &
grateful