Battle Scars
one of one
She wears a plaster on her knee, calls it her medal of honour from falling down the stairs. She takes a breath and rips it from her skin, eyes squeezed tightly shut from the pain, and I swear the dried blood makes a heart before she rubs it away. There are no marks on her skin and she frowns, clambers to her feet and tells me proudly that she’s going out to earn herself from battle scars to match the criss-cross patchwork on her arms.