the Devil is in the details, They say. maybe the ugliest scars are formed in the irrelevant parts of a tragedy, the moments like faded pictures you can't find strength to throw away. the scars we See: some tiny pock on an elbow, or a raised white line across an ankle perhaps, almost invisible, we trace again, and again, and again with searching eyes, fingertips, minds, it's a funny sort of superstition. the ones that never heal, i think, are always tied to the worst moments these tiny bumps always find a way to catch on something(anything) a zipper, a bracelet, a stocking. the silent mouths on our bodies whisper "you may not forget.” scraped knees and dizzy first kisses, perhaps are the mysterious constants that move life forward, always. the funny thing, i guess, the enchantingly hilarious part, is that the scars that loom gray and purple and pregnant with shadows, so striking to the beholder, are invisible to others in the sun. most of our darkest scars are hidden beneath clothes or buried beneath infinite topography of human skin speckled with freckles, moles, blemishes, kissed with tiny hairs and textured liberally with more mundane battle wounds; the thumb-crease from the car-door the pink and silver sliver from when the knife slipped slicing something for dinner on an otherwise lovely night. the more fantasy-oriented among us may cherish the small pink auras left behind by spider bites. battle wound enthusiasts, breathless on ravishing delightful adventures caress them for good luck like lovesick pubescent girls coveting the blush of a hickey on dewy skin. a girl like that always stands out, tiny child on the cusp of womanhood faint smile glowing through her adopted aloofness and too much makeup. her fingers move over a blotch of skin hidden by cheap concealer, or fumble with the fold of her flatteringly tight turtleneck, and for an instant, the sleeping vixen wakes up and looks out through eyes still clouded with sleepy innocence. no matter how clueless, plain, desperate, or even flat out unappealing the boy was, the memory is sweet. Sometimes, imagination does play a part. a woman can't survive unless she reminds herself of the excitement, the urgency, the danger, and the heat that marked her as its own. Somewhere, in the surge of hormones, wants, needs, a rare thing is created; a memory encompassing all sensual and emotional aspects of fulfillment, every smell, each shadow in stark light, and the ground beneath your feet. |