The past is filled with pain,

with that I must agree.

But from the past there’s much to gain

it’s the pain that makes me, me.

The injuries now sealed

look different from before.

The scars and breaks within

cry out stories through the skin.

Of toes I’ve broken four,

I’m sure I’ll soon break more.

Two were swiftly snapped: drawn like magnets to the wall.

The pain skipped out of mind as I chased my brothers down the hall.

The third from a mountain as downwards I was hiking.

The fourth from the asphalt that caught my foot while I was biking.

Of arms I’ve broken one

though bones I’ve broken two.

Telling the story is always fun

because all see I’m a fool.

A toy car on my bunk bed sent me flying over the rim.

I hit my arm against a brace I tried catch as down l fell

 (of course I missed or there’d be no story, the light was far too dim).

That arm was crushed between body and ground, it was broken, I could tell. 

The ulna broke in two,

 the top inch out of place.

The radius cracked halfway through

(I recall the horror on my mother’s face)

It’s healed now, as strong as ever, all sports and actions safe.

I tell this story to all I meet so we can laugh at my lack of grace. 

Of scars I carry many,

(and of blood it seems I have plenty).

Four on the wrist from pins that held my bone

Three in a Z from figure skates in a jump gone wrong.

Two scars matching with my brothers,

one for each of them.

With the younger on my knee

from falling out of a tree for me

and skidding off a bike for him.

With the older it’s my wrist (again)

It seems to be a family trend

to slice the forearm in an accident 

which heals to look much like dent.

He sliced his wrist while trimming grass

with the box cutter he’d found on father’s desk.

He was young, three at the time,

that’s less embarrassing than mine.

I slid my wrist along a knife, while getting a glass of water, 

the same knife I’d just set there when I was done preparing dinner.

Mind that all of these were accidents,

the twinning scars: coincidence.

Like fog on a lake, the past’s covered in pain,

but breeze clears the fog and I can see:

Stories through skin and memories gained,

those are what matter most to me.