in the car i look at my wrists because the watery sun of the morning warps my front windshield and turns my skin translucent. i looked at my translucent skin and counted scars.

the gnarled ugly scars on my fingers, from the only dog who'd ever so much as growled at me. i was just trying to help, but i was stupid, and he was scared.

the purple scars, faded, on knuckles that stick out at weird angles when my hands curl into fists. they never healed right from the crumbling brick on the back of my house.

the jagged line on my pinky, from when my brother bent it back until it snapped.

and then the lines.

white lines faded and soft, camouflaged behind blue veins. translucent.

then white lines, jagged, bumpy, tangible.

then the angry ones, faded pink, deep, shaky, crooked.

i run my fingers over those and close my eyes.

my fingers have stopped at the crook of my elbow but my mind has not.

my mind has traveled down past the ribs, that stick out crooked because the doctor wasn't an option, never has been.

nothing has ever healed right in my body.

past the angry line across my stomach where the yellow stuffing bursting at my stitches put too much poison in my brain, where i thought maybe i could just pull it out to make it shut up.

past lines lines lines on my hipbones my thighs deep and raised and crooked and angry where you ruined me, past the bad knee that never really recovered from the trip down the stairs.

my mind travels across every scar, every story, and when i open my eyes with my fingers still on my wrist, i feel my heartbeat under my skin and realize the water under my skin leaks out through every angry hand and i think about how i'm not dead yet. how it doesn't mean i'm strong, it just means i'm scared.