sjsprWriting

When she feels the hand hesitate over her back, she cringes but smirks, because fuck it, she knew this would happen it always happens. She knows the sight of the scars littering her body shock, and she remembers a time in her life where she used to cry in shame, but its gotten to a point where the shame has become a mute numb in the back of her head. This person isn't the first she's brought home with the intention of having them make her forget (only to have the opposite happen and all she can do is remember), nor will they be the last.

It's not just the hand's presence she feels now, but eyes as well, skittering over the expanse of her back, her shoulders, rib cage. Her body was a canvas for moments, each scar representing a different one, forever marred into her skin, to her being. Those scars are her, and how daddy would come home from late nights, smelling like things her nose would crinkle at, or how mommy couldn't stop crying, locked up in her room. The telly's faces mocking her, cigarette burns from the inability to find an ashtray around, F's and stares in school, or the time when she encountered a man by the name of Johnnie Walker for the first time, who would never leave her alone ever again because while other people leave, he was always there. Or that one time where she couldn't handle her liquor (she never could, she doesn't know why she ever thought she could), hand sliding off the handle for a while, and crashes, glass, lots of glass, blinding lights and the inability to remember absolutely anything that happened. Rehabilitation, recovery, regress. Rehabilitation, recovery, regress. She's back in the recovery stage of her life right now, and she supposes that she is at least a little bit better now.

She knows the sight of the scars littering her body shock, and she knows they're not pretty, but she can't bring herself to do some surgery that will wipe it all, take it all away, because she knows it can't be taken away, it will never be able to go away: those scars are hers, they're her life, and they're not pretty, but her life isn't pretty----it never was.