There are scars borne of pain, borne of disgust, of disdain. Small problems that were too small, they were invisible, unstoppable, invincible. They attacked in droves, leaving nothing to chance, leaving eternal sting of WhatCouldHaveBeen, and they
as if nothing had happened. Some scars are deep, some are shallow, but they’re all the same, deep inside.
They’re all mosquito bites from my uneventful zoo CIP yesterday, and they’re all on my legs. Sucks to be me. I would break into haiku now, except that I am too bloated to count on my fingers.