“My bodyHealed quickly. But the woundto my psyche was deep.Wide. First aid, too little, too late, left me hemorrhaging inside, the blood unstaunched by psychologicalbandage or love's healing magic.Eventually it scabbed over,a thick, ugly welt of memory.I work to conceal it, but no matter how hard I try, once in a whilesomething makes me pick at ituntil the scarring bleeds.In my arms, Ashante cries, innocence ripped apartby circumstance. Bloodied by inhuman will. Time will provea tourniquet. But she will alwaysbe at risk of infection.”

“ed. now. picking at the scab that was starting to heal over. why did guys do that? too little too late?”

“I never knew where I was going, but I ripped the tits off of everything that got in my way. By the time they figured me out, it was too late.”

“I am invariably late for appointments - sometimes as much as two hours. I've tried to change my ways but the things that make me late are too strong, and too pleasing.”

“I love my mom. And this time, I told her I loved her. And she told me she loved me, too. And things were okay for a little while.”

“As we made love, our scars met,grazing long enough for mine to say“He tries to hide me,”and for yours to reply“I know I embarrass her.”“He never learned how to swim,” whispered my scar.“She got picked last in gym class,then cried into her pillow,” replied yours.Just then, a huge wound opened in me.You touched it. It closed.I was filled, fully healed, and I knewI would never be able not to love you.”