It feels odd, though, to be sitting at a table, my bare forearms right there. I take off clothes to shower and change, obviously, but I don’t really look at myself. The scars are many and varied. The arcs from the stove. The thick white lines from the knife wounds that probably needed stitches, but never got them. Small pink patches where I was burned with a match or a lighter. The embedded ink where my father wanted to make sure a message really stuck with me.
