There are times we don’t even remember how we were cut.
We just see dots and lines of dried blood. Sometimes a few drops still wet, glistening on a gash.
Most just shrug their shoulders, smile sheepishly, and move on. That is, if they are lucky.
And if they keep their memory shallow and short. But bruises brood.
There are scars that leave prints like signatures, or insignia. Marks like eyes forced shut.
Espadrilles bought from Aldevinco, Davao
There are people that brandish them like badges.
But for me, I keep the secrets of my scars silent.
We are all veterans of our private, unfinished battles.
To ask and compare stitches. To laugh at them in public.
Expound and expand tall tales.
Wear again the uniforms and armor that we used to clutch close to our chests.
Only to fold back as tight as healed skin when we are alone again.