battle scars

Sitting in class, I glanced down and noted the v-shaped scar on my hand. I remembered how I got it. The technician at the hospital told me it was impossible for him to cut me with the scissors he used to cut off my cast. He was cutting me, but assured me that it was just pinching and that I had a low pain tolerance. When he finally got the cast off, I was bleeding and the seed of my scar was created.

Stepping back, how did I, the overly cautious one, end up with a broken hand? My friend Dave said that I was a flake and that I never followed through on my plans with him. I made plans with him for Friday and swore to be there. When friends invited me out for drinks, I wanted Dave, then, to come – rather than flake out again. So, I ran to leave a note for him.

I was wearing platforms so that no one would know how short I was.

I tripped, fell hard, tried to save my cell phone with my right hand, landed badly on my left hand (i'm left handed) and broke my arm.

As I sit in class holding back brokenness and tears over my friend, and meet my scar again, I begin to wonder how many scars I will incur in attempt to have others see me in a kind light.