I had a scar once. It was the subtlest line of slightly raised tissue on the uppermost spot on my right thigh. I was fascinated with it as a little girl, crafting different scenarios by which I came to have it. These weren’t stories I shared with anyone, just events I explored in my mind. I had dalliances with perfectionism as a girl, worrying that this or that wasn’t just so, but this scar, this mark, it suggested having done something. I had braved something. And I loved this scar with its delicate pink and white streaks. I still have it, but it does not take center stage as it used to. Now my fingers are more likely to trace the sprays of lines…

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