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Mystery Scar
Every time I look at my left hand,
you seem to stare up at me.
I always stare back,
yearning for you to tell me where you are from.
Your origin remains a mystery to me.
Maybe a curling iron? A fishing hook?
Probably plain stupidity.
I know I’ll never find your genesis,
my scar companion.
Or why you sit right below my thumb knuckle
and watch me daily.
I don’t mind your whole presence
because what would have my childhood been
without a few mystery scars?

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