Several scars, including scars on both arms that appear to be from a previous suicide attempt. The scar tissue looks to be about four years old. One scar is darker and thicker than the other. “I cut one arm, but I didn’t cut deep enough. And then I cut my other arm, and I cut too deep. I’m not suicidal or anything like that, in case you were worried.” You, to me, in your bedroom, near enough to the beginning of our relationship that I hadn’t figured out how to ask you about the scars on your arms. You saved me having to ask. You probably were used to being asked. You had rehearsed your explanation. I used to think I’d stop seeing those scars, the longer we were together, but I always saw those scars. I didn’t mind them; I believed that you weren’t suicidal. Besides, those scars were reminders: To you, not to try that again, and to me, of you before you became part of you and me.
The lesser of the two scars. The bruise on your arm probably the remnants of a hickey. Each time we fucked, we promised not to leave marks, and each time, we left marks.
Henderson
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