a bite in the scar tissue. it is the size of a dime—a dime that was heated up with a flame and placed on my arm with the sole purpose of burning the skin. in time it became a moon with two stars, or a happy accident in a deliberate act. i remember thinking that it couldn’t wait, that it needed to be done. sometimes it still itches, as if to say: don’t forget.
wounds heal in time, in stages. they slip through crust, mantle and outer core until reduced to ashes in the innermost part of the earth.
you are six years old now. you are the age of a child. you developed the ability to hear and manipulate sounds. you understand what same and different means. you start to grasp the concept of time. you know a couple thousand words, and you would like to write down the words you know, but you only write down your name. you are six years old now, but in the rumpled skin in the fold of my arm you never became more than who you were when you were born.