My scars have piled up like leaves on Autumn grass.

My knees are a testament to lake pollution

and MRSA.

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

methodically

to reproduce a dead racist's tentacle monster.

My scars define me.

They exist as proof that I,

in fact,

lived.