The scar on my knee was when my mother pulled me out of the seat of a shopping cart and scraped my knee on part of the metal. I don’t remember it hurting, but I bet it bled a lot. Most shopping carts are plastic now.
The scar on my palm I got when I was about five, I had cut it on a toy of mine late at night. I don’t remember the toy. All I really remember was being at the hospital strapped to a bed and I couldn’t move; screaming to be let out. Those were the only stitches I ever got; two.
The scar on my wrist I got when I was jumping on a trampoline when I was about eight. It didn’t hurt. When my friend saw it he went screaming for his mother that I was bleeding. I thought he was over reacting.
The scar on my mind I got when he would blow up for no reason. It wasn’t too long before I wouldn’t ask for anything and go to great lengths to make sure there was no problem. The scar got bigger as I would lie to stay out of trouble. I still lie today, but not as much.
The scar on my heart I got when she called me out of the blue and said it was over. I had been planning to break up anyway, but it was going to be me who did it. She left me for him. It took a while, but that scar healed ok.
The scar on my worth I got when they fired me. I know I wasn’t doing that good anyway; I knew that. But to be looking for an excuse to get rid of me instead of just saying so was lame. That scar still bleeds a little when I pick at it.
There are other people who have bigger scars than me. Others only have one or two, but these are mine.