Scars

I have many multicolored adornments I wear with a certain amount of pride and ownership on my body. These blemishes remind me where I've been, what I've done, and how miserably I failed at doing it.
Take, for instance, the purple splotches on the backs of my heels. These have formed from wearing size 3 in children's white patten leather flats. I have walked miles in them while the backs spent hours biting blisters into my skin.
Or maybe the spotty pattern on my right knee that seemingly appeared out of nowhere following a surprise romp in my car at nine A.M. It scabbed and flaked and got infected. Now, over a month later, it is a violet-brown around shiny white scar tissue.
Move up my legs and find tan lines along the outside of my thigh. These are emotional. The long one running horizontal is the worst scar I have, to no surprise, it is my favorite.
Scars, too many to recall, all telling a story, painting a picture on my ivory skin. Fingers run over them and beg for the tale of how it got there, beg for more to be revealed.