My scars have piled up like leaves on Autumn grass.
My knees are a testament to lake pollution
My hands tell the story of a rambuncious youth
yearning for adventure.
My thighs are a roadmap of mental illness
and a fondness for razor blades.
My face bears the craters from a begone allergy
My mouth is the magnum opus of a poorly trained dog,
whom I miss everyday.
My arm is a work of art,
scars carved slowly
to reproduce a dead racist's tentacle monster.
My scars define me.
They exist as proof that I,
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