Every scar has a story to tell, like about the time I fell from the deck of the house, to gash my toy unto my head, blood so thick, I thought I was dead, little boy blue, all of 3 years old, running into the house, a terrible sight to behold, to see the look of anger, in my father's eye, another dollar wasted, hospital visit in fear, knowing the pain of the needle that stitched me closed was nothing to the whooping waiting, for getting blood on the kitchen floor. So many scars, I had to make more, to cover up the ones I couldn't name, the stories I can't tell.