Seen on the Brown Line to Kimball at about 8:15 p.m., April 25th, 2013
"Where did you get that scar?" ask the wrinkled noses and averted eyes. The lips and tongues are not so curious; they know to mind their own business. I am grateful for their tact because my own, ruined lips never have to respond. They never have to recount their own destruction. They never have to speak those grotesque memories aloud and make the pain real again. They never have to take the stand and name their attacker. What does it matter, anyway? Whether it was a birth defect or an angry fist, I am still hideous, and you are still disgusted.
I wrote this the other day and then forgot to use it. I'm writing it on my dad's new iPad (with a keyboard, though). I should probably stop ignoring him and focus on our late lunch. Until next week!