Scars I don't mind having.

  1. The purple ones by my pinkie toes.
    From a jellyfish, prof that even dead ones are still stingy. (Is this a metaphor for relatives?!!!)
  2. The red dot on the side of my calf.
    Bug bites from camping in Kings Canyon, where the biggest sequoia trees in the world are.
  3. The multiple flat white rough circles on my knees.
    They tell of my childhood well played, of rollerblades and attempts at bike riding, of swing sets and stumbles on trails, all patched with pretty bandaids and kisses from my mom.
  4. The pink spots on my right wrist.
    Two little dots tell of the first time I made a vegan dish my dad truly loved (and had requested dozens of times since!)
  5. A tiny dent on the outside of my left shoulder.
    My mother ensured that for my entire life, I wouldn't get HPV, looking at it is looking at her love for me.
  6. The clean silver line on my chin.
    Proof I can smash my jaw into practically smithereens and recover from it.
  7. The pitted scars on my right cheek.
    Proof that I can stop picking at acne, and that my compulsive behaviors don't rule everything I do. I can like my face with the imperfections and abuse I inflicted upon it.