My hands are a canvas painted in scars.
I have my big scars, well one big one and then a few other moderate ones, that have inhabited by body for many years now. It takes a lot to add to that collection. I know when a new one is going to added anywhere else.
But my hands? Well my hands are ever changing.
There’s that one scar that I got back in June. There’s the one I got a few years back when I scratched a chunk out of the back of my hand tying my hair up (yes, really). There are a few from minor burns. One from that time I got my finger stuck in the door…
It feels like I find a new cut on my hands every day when a stinging sensation accompanies washing my hands. With those new cuts comes new scars. Tiny ones that from afar are barely visible. But when you spend as much time glancing at your hands as I do, you notice the changes.
New faint white marks replace dark brown scabs, sometimes with my knowledge. Usually without though.
There are honestly some I have no recollection of ever getting, which is weird because both of the ones that come to mind as I talk about this are on knuckles and that seems like an inconvenient place to have any kind of cut and a hard place to ignore. But there you go.
I’ve only thought about this so much because I’ve got a new scab forming from a cut with unknown origins and I’m waiting for it to reveal yet another white mark.
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