I sit here this morning examining this body of mine, allowing my gaze to pause momentarily over those deep groves. Those places that still sting with pink defiance. It occurs to me I am unaware where each of these marks are from. Are they from the fall? Are they physical memorials of my mother dead yet still not in a grave? Are they self infected manifestations of pains unknown and unwilling to be known? Maybe they are from past lovers, or perhaps just of good times gone a rye. No matter what the cause they are as much a part of me as the smooth places. Scarred but not broken.