poetry: not battle scars, and yet

you hate getting wounded,
scraping your shins and
skinning your knees.
you pick at scabs with
a sort of horrified
fascination.

but you love your scars.

your mother tells you
to leave your wounds alone,
to not pick and
to not touch;
she says they’ll scar,
like it’s a bad thing.

but you love your scars.

you tell her that you love them,
that if you’ve gone to all that trouble
of hating getting wounded,
you may as well get something to remember it by,
and your mother grimaces, says,
“they’re not battle scars.”

they aren’t, no.

but they still tell stories.
and you love your scars.