My body has kept a record of failed childhood stunts, of falling from trees, of cat scratches, hidden razor shells and drunken falls. I have a bent finger from when it was slammed in a car door. I was too young to remember but my body wasn't. I have perpetually bruised shins from mysterious accidents that my brain never even acknowledges, but my body pays much closer attention to detail. It sees that I pay homage to these insignificant events in shades of purple and green.
I have scars from incidents that hurt me physically but were void of meaning, not worth a mental note but apparently worth a slight mutilation. A thin white line on my arm is the equivalent of a knot in a handkerchief. It now seems unfitting that I don't have a scar from my first kiss, the first time someone told me they loved me, the first time someone told me they didn't love me any more. I don't have scars from holding hands or from the times when skin-on-skin felt electric. There is no physical trace, no real electric shocks, no evidence to prove that my body has been next to someone else's and that it was more important than anything else. I would rather carry scars to show my triumphs but instead my body sees it appropriate that I remember minor physical failures. I don't remember what happened to make me run, but I can see vividly the shape of the cut from when I fell. I'm not even sure whose hand helped me up.