My Scars

If I colored in all of my scars what would I look like? Would I be spotted with decaying drops like acid rain, or would I be covered head to toe in the everlasting imperfection that is my history? Sometimes I sit and examine my hand, my arms, my stomach, my legs. I remember the boiling pain of the iron skillet when I touch the white slash on the back of my hand. I can feel the ripping pain of wood on skin when I run my fingers across the knuckles on my left hand. The thin red line inside my belly button takes me back to the surgery and fear of the unknown. My scars go by unnoticed by others, but I can touch and remember each tearing memory. I can still feel the skin ripping and burning. My scars are constant reminders of my physical history. I wonder through, what about the part of me that no one sees. What does the inside of me, my soul, look like? Am I completely unrecognizable? Would I know myself if I caught a glimpse of my scar-covered soul?