The scars on my knees
Shaped like a teardrop

Cascading down my kneecap

Empty now

the gravel was scraped out

the infection was burned away

hydrogen peroxide does wonders

"You’ll never be able to model now, sweetheart"

Said my grandmother

Eyes pinched shut, fingernails gripping into my mother’s palms

I only wished to be able to shout back,

No, but Grandmother, Grandmother I will have a story to tell when my dresses are above the knee and the boy adjacent to me asks what happened.

I will have a lesson to teach my children, something to laugh about in the years to come

This scar will not let me walk down the runway

But then again, would I be able to anyway?

I am a mere five feet above the ground, this scar is not what is holding me back

The morals and vain expectations of society are what hold me back

I do not wish to be a model

Grandmother your comment is irrelevant

But if I were hovering above the earth at six feet tall with my ribs fighting for warmth underneath a thin layer of skin

Would the scars on my knees hold me back?