“Where, o inveterate scar, did you go? Have you tired of our story-telling? Oh, there you are, silly! Making friends, bonding w/ a fresh one. #liblit”
So goes today’s tweet as a response to a prompt for writing: use “scar” and “inveterate.” Without batting an eyelash — I had to talk about scars over scars among scars.
This one up here is on the left breast, from a biopsy. It has a mirror on the right, from an earlier incision, years before. If I allowed the doctors, they would have made two other ones, and perhaps, two more next year, and the year after that, until my mammas would look like embossed versions of a Victoria’s Secret pair.
That or they decide I wouldn’t need to wear a pair of Victoria’s Secret at all.
Either way, I won’t feel pretty. Punk, perhaps, but not pretty. Brave, perhaps, but not invincible. Knighted, even if only tentatively victorious, but always, always silently afraid and vulnerable.
I am a woman made up of scars. I have scars on many places of my body. My forehead, too. How I got them, mostly as a child, seems so immaterial now. Why I got them is what I always wonder about. Perhaps I was a daredevil. Perhaps I had such allergies. Perhaps, I had a knack for getting hurt.
What I know is that my scars, like me, grew up to be not literal. See it up close: a scar of heart over my heart.