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A dark jagged scar makes its way down a gristly cheek,
telling tales that no words can do justice to. Was it a bloody war
where slaughter ruled the battleground, was it an assassin, clad
A dark jagged scar makes its way down a gristly cheek, telling tales that no words can do justice to. Was it a bloody war where slaughter ruled the battleground, was it an assassin, clad in black wading out the nights, or just a plain old shaving accident of an embarrassing nature?
Scars have always managed to spark an aura of romantic adventure in an idealistic, dreamy me. All the bad guys in movies always bragged of a defining mark across their body, nicely packed with a heart wrenching back story. Its all those little glitches that feature on a person that map out their life, theyre sort of like that tiny description you find on the behind of a book. Giving a stranger the tiniest insight to your life, just enough to make them wonder and keep them curious.
Scarless people have me wondering if they spent a childhood covered in bubble wrap, treading on feather cushions. Either that or they have fascinating powers of regeneration, in which case I hold no grudge. For all the scorn I offer the unscarred ones, I myself have but a few tame looking red marks. Nothing that would inspire any oohs and aahs. Of course theres still hope. With all my skills in tripping over nothing, Im bound to acquire a reasonably respectable scar eventually. Preferably a slick one running across an eyebrow. What, a girl can dream alright?
This I can promise, no matter how old I get, Ill never cease looking at scars with a superhero awe. Ugly is never a word Id dare associate with it. Perfection is a sham and everyones better off loving themselves for exactly what they are, eccentric affliliations and all.