the specifics of scars

by Mikki Aronoff

Scar (v.): To become mentally or emotionally traumatized, especially permanently.

When my body began to blossom, my parents stopped touching me. Mother lectured me on birth control, informed me that I was a “mistake.”  

Scar (n.): A mark left on the skin or within body tissue where a wound, burn or sore has not healed completely and fibrous connective tissue has developed.

As my lover’s star rose in the art world, I hitched my wagon to his shining. I’d burst into his studio, interrupt his stipple and crosshatch, stroke the marble streak of scar across his cheek. It was the smoothest part of him. When I tugged at his waistband, hungry, he’d push me aside, grunt our coupling was a mistake; touching was out of the question now.

Scar (n.): A steep high cliff.

In the push and shove of newfound fame, my beloved burned from the combustion. Soon, drink purchased his body. I grabbed him as he stumbled, seized him as he fell. I misjudged the distance; the jag of the precipice split my skin, birthed a new scar to touch.

Scar (n.): Cracks carved then sealed into worlds ruptured by persons held too far or too close. This class of scar contains the cold cast of the common opal, a scarcity of luster, a mere smolder of fire, like misdemeanors or embers of regrets. It is mystery captured in mottled whites and blues. One might think of milk glass. Of bottled secrets. Of loss.

As he lay quiet in the dawn of his dying, I pressed my ear against his scar. It sounded like hush. When I brushed my frantic fingers over the thick of its tissue, it almost felt like touching.

Photo of Mikki Aronoff

BIO: Mikki Aronoff lives in New Mexico, where she writes tiny stories and advocates for animals. She has stories in Best Microfiction 2024/2025 and Best Small Fictions 2024 and upcoming in Best Small Fictions 2025.