marks

There was a girl I loved back in my adolescent years, though at times it seemed more an act of mutually assured destruction.

Late one night at the diner she pulled up a pant leg to show me the woman's symbol she'd carved into the pale meat of her left calf. I couldn't tell then if she wanted me to oooh and ahhh over the angry red flesh or pull her back from the brink of something I couldn't even see.

I have worn this same mark on my left shoulder these past thirteen years, carved somewhat more professionally into pale freckled skin, ink-tipped needle etching out once crisp black lines & smooth curves, now fuzzy edged and fading to a softer grayish-green.