I find it kind of sad but no matter where I go, what I am doing, who I am talking to, I will always without a doubt look at their skin for scars. If their sleeve goes up, I stare intently at their arm, if their pant leg moves, I scan their flesh for the tell tale signs. I am horribly disappointed when I don’t see anything, no soft pink lines, or angry red slashes. I want to touch everyone’s skin, and find their depressions and their failures. I want to see that I am not fucking alone in all of this. 

I stand in front of my mirror and I find nothing weird about the amount of scars that riddle my body like bullet holes. I find nothing wrong with seeing them scab and flake. I find clean thighs and flawless arms weird.