This is Tessa

Tessa is my sister. She had food poisoning when we took these photos. She sat on my bed and we talked about this project. She said, "I wish I had a scar." I looked at her, her hair damp and stuck to her forehead, smelling a bit like throw-up. "Have you never had surgery? I've had surgery three times," I told her and she said she hadn't. Together we looked for scars on her body: on her stomach and on her knees, face, elbows. There weren't any. I wondered aloud how she could have escaped injury from her active childhood, a childhood that produced hundreds of photos of her in mid-flight.
Finally we found one, a little vertical line on her left foot. She recounted the story as a I photographed her pointing and flexing it. For a background we used our mom's drawing of a fishing boat.

This is Pat's story. Pat is Tessa's mother. (transcribed verbatim)

I just remember that she had sandals on and all of a sudden she as walking along here, just a few houses away, coming home from somewhere, and all of a sudden there was blood all over her foot. So then we discovered that she had mysteriously cut her foot and I think she was quite proud of the cut because she was only about four years old. I think also she had never experienced anything like that before and when she saw all the blood she burst into a panic state and was crying quite loudly. Of course all we had to do was just wash her foot off with cold water and put a little band-aid on it. So there was a little scar and she's been kind of proud of that scar ever since.

This is Shazi

I stared for hours at the computer screen before I finally typed these words.
Tears rolling down my cheeks... hand clutching a wet tissue.... salty mucus dripping into my mouth... I feel horrible...

Why am I feeling this way?
My sis had just said something so seemingly insignificant to some, a minute comment, a passing remark, a harmless tease... Usually I would not have been offended by what she had said but clearly enough is enough.

I was showing her a picture of this guy who I thought looked similarly to me and I joked that he was my twin. My sister then joked to say, "Ya. He's the good-looking twin and you're the ugly pimply one. Haha. Pimple face."

Usually I could always make a good bitchy comeback but whenever someone teases me about my scarred pimply skin, I would be dumbfounded, my whole 'defense' mechanism would shut down and I would begin to withdraw as if I was crawling away to hide in a corner.

I went to my bed and tried to sleep but my mind just kept replaying the words she said to me.
Trust me, this is not the first time she said that to me. I have been called worst. Pimples. Pimple boy. Polka Dot face. Moon face. Everything and anything nasty.
And usually I wouldn't be bothered but because of my insomnia (I have been having that for the past 2 weeks now), the words kept ringing and ringing in my head until it came to a certain point when I just cried. I brokedown in my bed.
I was trying to do the manly thing you know, tried to keep it silent, stifling my cries, trying to control it. But I lost it.

I sobbed.
And sobbed as if I lost the most precious thing in the world to me.

So this was the time when I sat in front of my computer and turned it on and wrote this, still crying...

It pains me to talk about my skin and now I feel ready to talk.

I have always withdrawn from conversations when skin or complexion is involved. I will keep quiet when my friends lament about a recent zit they have on their otherwise blemished-free skin. I will always turn speechless when people ask me about my skin condition. And I will always smile awkwardly when some friends make rude jokes about my acne. But it always pains me inside. Don't they care?

Its not fair.
Its not my fault I look this way. Or is it?
Is it because of what I eat? What I did or didn't do?
Is it because I don't wash my face often or because I over-do it?
Is it because I picked my pimples when I was younger (I honestly was clueless at that time and also thanks to my eldest sis who always 'pops' my pimples and I developed the habit as I grew older)?
Is it because of my genes?
What?
What's wrong with me?
Is it me?

Its not fair.
That I have to spend more effort and money on my skin.
That I have to watch what I eat.
That I can't enjoy fried or spicy food without worrying if I might have a large zit the next day.
Or that I have to cleanse my face more often than others, otherwise I would feel uncomfortable and oily each time I didn't.
That I need to spend hundreds of dollars on facial products, cleanser, exfoliant, skin rejuvenating cream or benzoyl peroxide creams (you name it, I have it) every month.
Or spend thousands on facials in facial spas or skin centres (which you will end up paying more when you buy their products that they 'promise' will help you).
Is it fair that I have to fork out an additional 60 dollars to buy medication from my doctor every single month.
(I think I could have spent close to S$2000 annually on all these products for the past 10 years or so...) Tell me is it fair?
People will just think that I have been idling my time away as my skin condition worsens when in reality they don't know how much effort and money I have spent to prevent it from deteriorating further.

Its not fair.
Watching people with clear skin having so much higher self esteem than me, chatting confidently with strangers, smiling like the world owes them a living.
That I am always feeling insecure about how I look when I take pictures up close. Or that I have to spend longer time to groom and conceal all those zits.
Or that I am always stared at by other people. Like a freak in a freakshow.
Is it fair that I have low confidence in approaching girls, to do anything for that matter?
Or knowing that nobody would kiss me on my oily pimply cheeks.

Its not fair.
That I have to be at the butt of the joke of my so-called friends about my complexion. I know I look horrible. You don't have to point it out...
From the subtle, "I don't want to pick my zit otherwise I would look like Shazi," to the trying-to-be-helpful-but-really-you-are-not, "I think its in the genes cause I saw your dad and he looks like you too," to the plain nasty, "All those oxy cream is not helping you, give up lah. Your face liddat (like that). Why still using?"

Now, its really not fair.
To add to my acne scars, I have chicken pox scars.
Horribly scarring the skin on my torso and arms, not to mention my already disfigured face.
This time I really feel like showering with acid to melt my skin away.
Recently, I had mustered the courage to go to gym wearing a singlet instead of my T-shirt.
And that would be the last time I'll be wearing singlets to anywhere for that matter.
Because while I was changing in the washroom, I overheard a couple of Malay guys talking about my scarred body (...in Malay), unaware that I was also Malay and I could understand them, every single word. At first I saw one gesturing to the other with his eyes to look at me. They laughed and then the one who noticed first asked the other guy what was wrong with me. Not wanting to hear anymore, I scurried out of the changing room, obviously embarassed. I felt like I had a disease, you know? I felt like I was in a way being discriminated against. I felt humiliated.
Tell me is this fair?

There was this young nephew of mine who rubbed his palms on my cheeks and ask me blatantly, "What is wrong with your face? Why do you look different? You are so rough." I explained it to him that I had pimples.
That night, I cried myself to sleep (I'm such a crybaby, I know)...

And now he asks a different question, one I don't have the answer to, "Izan, why do you have so many pimples?"
And he asks that every single time he rubs my cheeks again or kisses me on the cheek. And my eyes will water slightly when I reply, "I don't know."

On the eve of the past 10 birthdays of my life, I have always prayed to God for the same thing.

To grow taller and to have clear skin. After I turned 17 (and I know its scientifically proven that humans stop growing and I can never grow any taller), I've still been clinging to the hope that when I wake up the next morning my skin would be all fine and I would look normal. Every single morning of my birthday, I will wake up feeling cheated and stupid as I look at myself in the mirror. And I will ask God, "God... why am I still ugly? It is not fair..."

Even though I believe in the 'beauty is only skin deep' rubbish, I can't help to think that these scars have not only scarred me on the outside, it has left deeper scars within me.

I don't need you...to take pity on me as I am writing this not to gain your sympathy or understanding, I'm writing this primarily because I want to.

You don't have to feel sorry for me in anyway, because I already do feel sorry for myself.

"I sobbed.
And sobbed as if I lost the most precious thing in the world to me."

My pride.

This is Valerie

Valerie had shingles as a child. As a result her forehead is scarred.

This is Family

This is my uncle Lars Eric. His scar is from a carcinogenic melanoma removal. It's a bit like a small crater above his knee. My lovely aunt Philippa has her hands around it in the first photo.

This is Frida

This is Frida's story.

I was mourning the death of my father. More to the point, I was coming to terms with the constant missing that one has to become accustomed to after a loved one dies. The “deafening silence”.

I was 18, living in Montreal and on my own for the first time. It was too cold to go outside, and it would have been too cold regardless of the weather. I had decided that self-destructing was the only adequate way to show how I felt. The world was going on as if nothing had happened and I resented the fuck out of it. So, I fasted regularly, stopped attending school, and watched sad films. That was my life. No friends, no phone calls. I had a stack of films by the bed, and that was my main form of human contact. I sometimes talked back to the characters. I refused my mom’s frantic phone calls.

One night I was watching a film and eating greasy Chinese food that I had had delivered at 3 A.M. It was part of the fasting cycle, the gorging after the week of deprivation. I looked down at all the empty containers and felt so disgusting and grotesque for allowing myself to eat all that disgusting food. I wanted to punish myself. More than anything, I wanted to feel anything but the weird numbness I felt.

I cut myself with a serrated kitchen knife. I had never done it before and I have never done it since. I’m not a “cutter” in the sense that it was never a habit. The scars are almost gone now, so maybe I’m glad that I won’t have anything to explain to curious boyfriends and concerned friends.

This is Fred

This is Fred's story.

I love history and scars are part of our history - but some more so than others.



Part of my parents’ story is written on my stomach. Their first child was born in 1945 after their work, lives and marriage were much disrupted in occupied Holland. Their next trauma was my pyloric stenosis (projectile vomiting) and surgery at just 10 days. Small wonder perhaps that they could never bring themselves to tell me about those days, let alone explain the mystery pattern on my body.



A small but significant part of my story is also embedded in this scar. I believe my parents’ reticence and my own shy and introspective nature worked together with this mark of my individuality to deepen some of my internal struggles over the years. In recent years, the Web has thankfully done much to break down my trauma over being uniquely and abnormally “different”.



My scar also reflects the advance of surgery. Before a simple surgical remedy was published in 1912, pyloric stenosis used to kill almost all affected infants. My scar is a life line. But since 1945, surgical technique has shown great progress, as incisions are made more carefully or eliminated by the laparoscope, and as wounds are stitched internally.

This is Carmen

This is Carmen's story.

When puberty hit, it hit hard. I gained forty pounds, sprouted hair, and developed D-cup breasts seemingly overnight. I was thirteen and my body was a foreign thing.

To my total horror and shame, I got stretch marks all around each breast. They are mostly white now, but back then they were red and very noticeable.

I cannot explain how horrible I felt about them. I felt robbed of my youth. I would always hear older women muse nostalgic about how being thirteen meant effortless beauty: clear skin, eating junk food and never gaining a pound. Flawlessness. This was not my reality.

I have various scars from various things on my body and would never, ever feel as horrible and self conscious about them as I do about my stretch marks. They are the first thing I think of when I’m with a new lover. Their visibility is the first thing I consider when trying on clothing.

They are my scars. I felt disfigured and only stopped feeling so very, very recently. I still cringe whenever I see them. I’m cringing right now as I write this.

-----------
And later:

Svea: Has anyone else (other than me) ever commented on your stretch marks? I think you said that your boyfriend (whose name escapes me) thought they were pretty. What did he say? Can I include that in your story? I think it's important. Do you?

Carmen: I'm not sure if ... [my boyfriend] said anything about my marks other than that they're pretty and he hardly notices them. I've always been too scared to mention them to anyone else.

-----------
And then, a bit later:

December 11th:

Svea: Can I put the portrait one of you in, under Carmen? I love that photo.

Carmen: Hmm...OK

December 12th:

Carmen: Just saw the post........... OK, sorry to be super annoying BUT I didn;t realize you were going to put that horriffic and absoluteley repulsive las pic of my deformed breast. Oh God I want to die. Ok, you can keep it IF you please, please, please delete the pic that shows my actual face so people don;t know that it's me and that I'm that totally repulsive. I know you won;t agree and I don;t need reassurance I just do NOT want people seeing my face any more. I am never getting naked again ever.

Svea: Oh my word, my dear, you're freaking out. I think all the photos are beautiful. I'd rather take off the last one than the first. Can I do that?

Carmen: yes. although from your point of view the last one shows the "scars" better. In that it shows how grotesque and deformed and stretched the skin is. but fine, if you take the last one out then i can deal with my face being attached to an embarassing story. bleh.

Svea: Well hey, I want you to feel good about it. It matters less to me than it does to you...
So I've taken the post down (it's saved, but as a draft). Think about what you want (which pictures, etc.), and just let me know in a few hours or at the end of the day or when you're ready... I just really love that portrait, but then maybe I could take other portrait photos of you that aren't 'scar' related. You are, after all, Ms. photogenic.
Let me know what you want. It's not empowering if you hate it! Well, that is, if you hate it and don't want it up!

December 15th:

Carmen: Hey Ms. Svea,

Hmmm...okay, much thinking. I've decided that you can keep the first two pieces, i.e. the one of my face/cleavage and the one where you just see my earings, cleavage, and the side of my face. Not the one I hate. If you like, you could also put the one where my hair just kind of dangles down?

I'm torn because if I were you, the artist, I would want to keep the one that shows the scars best. It works directly towards your theme, but isn;t as pleasant/pretty as the portrait. But the truth of the matter is that the portrait, though beautiful and...in a way showinbg some inner sadness...doesn't even show enough scars to make it...you know, matter?

"Like, why is this girl so obsessed with these half-invisible scars?? Get over yourself, lady." says the viewer that thinks like Carmen.

It's a tough call because I'm more prone to think as the artist, and I think that the work would be more successful with that last photo. But as the subject, I really can't handle disclosing so much of myself to the public. Even if no one I know sees it, I'll still know.

So, in closing (haha...oh I'm such a caffeine fiend at night and write these convoluted emails) you can put the first two photos and the one with my hair hanging down, but no close-up scars one.

Svea: Ok, sounds good. Why are you still up?
It's only midnight for me, but it's three for you!
You know, a lot of the scars [in the project] aren't all that visible... I think it's really interesting that way. They just are more important/meaningful (in both positive and negative ways) to us than they are to other people.

January 3rd:
Carmen: ok, so I'm very sorry to be a huge pain in the butt..but...could you take down the the pic that shows my face from the lifelines project? I know, I know..

Svea: Don't be sorry! It's fine. I want you to be comfortable with it... Can I put the other (more close-up one) up instead? Now that I don't have you face in it, you just might be more comfortable with that... >)
Also, it would be cool to put this correspondence in. You know, us negotiating the photos. Since no one can identify you now, would that be OK?
Carmen: Thanks dood. Yes, you can put the horrific "close up" up...everything is fine as long as my face isn;t there. Our correspondance is okay too.

This is Aaron

Aaron has a scar on the palm of his left hand. I photographed him in the Naam restaurant in Vancouver, B.C.

This is Rich

This is Rich's story.

so there i was at glastonbury 2003; stone circle was full of festival love and we had just arrived to offer our hearts and minds to the beat of the drums.......had been drinking for a few hours at this point - if i told you i knew what i'd be lying, but some local cider seems likely - and jake, charlie, greg, anna and i were all happily dipping into the bag of drugs marked "do not open until glastonbury." rather high, i decided i needed to piss, so ran off to find a suitable spot. it's definately against the rules not to use one of the 10,000 port-a-loos provided, but at this stage of the game, it just wasn't happening. standing against the fencing, i noticed a sign above me with a large stick man doing just as i was, with the following words underneath: "please don't pollute the area." i realise now that getting so excited about a sign with a picture of a guy peeing is really not that special, but trust me. right then i had to have it. so i ran as fast as i could to the tent, grabbed a knife and made my way back to the sign. it was held by a thick plastic bond, and it took a while to get even a little bit through it. slicing as hard as i could, in classic "blade towards face motion" the bond finally broke and the knife continued straight down into my forehead. bleeding everywhere but delighted with my trophy i ran back to afore mentioned friends who couldn't begin to understand why i cared about the sign in the first place. anna cleaned up the gash with the first aid kit i thought one of my stupid friends would end up needing, and back to the festival we went......

And later:

Svea:
Right then, thanks for telling your story. One more thing: what's it like to have that scar? How do people react to it?

Rich:
it's amazing having the scar.

everybody wants to fuck me because i cut myself in the face.

i wish the above were true.



This is Rich's leg scar.






He cut his leg while running in a field. His friend was chasing him.

This is Doug

Doug had his appendix removed. Waiting for his story.

This is Danielle

Danielle has a scar below her lip from having bitten it as a child. Her brother pushed her and she fell.

This is Kristen

I'm waiting for Kristen's story.

This is Dave

This is Dave's story. He was in a car-crash on the 401 about five years ago.

And this is Janna. They are a couple.

This is Rina

This is Rina's story.

My name is Rina and I have a scar on the left side of my abdoman. I got it from sliding down a tree when I was six, trying to impress my parents I screamed "look at me" and then lost my footing and slid. I tell people that I got it from a knife fight.

This is Christine

This is Christine's story.

I have a tattoo that is being removed surgically, it's a bit of a long story, but the short version is that a surgeon from cenral america was here visiting and took half of the tattoo off my right arm.. put a skin graft, and left the rest. It get's a lot of attention when I decide to wear sleevless shirts, or at clubs/bars, because of the type of scarring I have (keliod) it looks bumpy. people thinks it's tribal..

Well I hate it, but if it scares people from making poor desicions when they are 15, then some good comes out of it...

This is Margaret

This is Margaret's story.

I have a scar that is very similar [to Svea's] but rather longer and more worm-like - from exploratory surgery on my 21st birthday. Boy, did they explore! I am 53 now and quite used to it but I think it changed me forever to have a scar like that... It would be interesting [to have my photo taken]. I used to work as a model and actress, so I am used to photographers, although it's been many years. Not sure I want to identify with my scar by looking at it - have never considered it an art piece - to me it's abomination so I'm sure it would be a positive experience to look at it subjectively in another way.

Margaret hasn't come in to be photographed, but I'm still hoping she might. When I asked if I could post her story, this is what she said.

I would like to add the fact that it's been many years since I've felt comfortable about myself when it comes to having my photo taken because I have a secret that has taken away my looking at the camera - inside, in the deepest part of me, I feel scarred...is it the scar on my body or the scar in my heart that won't let me look at myself?

This is Bahi

This is Bahi's story.

I have to take a deep breath and I feel overwhelmed as I think of my scars.

In the summer of 2004, I had a few painful ankle surgeries to treat OCD, Osteo Chondritis Dissecans in my right ankle. The cartilage around the Talus bone in my ankle has deteriorated resulting in bone and bone friction causing me pain. It all started in the summer of 2003 when I was at the church. I had an excruciating pain in my right ankle and was unable to put my foot on the ground. Since then, the problem became worse leading to this diagnosis. I struggled for a year with this problem. I wore only running shoes with ankle support to help me alleviate my pain. My ankle was swollen with physical activities like walking and standing.

In year 2004, I underwent the first surgery and the Orthopaedic Surgeon, found my condition was "Severe." Then I had to have additional 2 surgeries to remove the cyst that formed around my incision and then to treat the water seeping through the incision not allowing it to heal. It was a very hard and a painful period for me without any help and facing the 4 walls. I cried. I felt sorry for myself. It took 3 long months for me to overcome this difficult time.

One day as I sat in my family room facing the 4 walls having no way out to have fun, I decided to find fun even through this difficult time. I started to laugh at my life. I laughed when I crawled like a mammal to the washroom. I even wondered whether I was moving forward in the cycle of evolution, and thus came a new inspirational writing, "Marriage is the final solution for long suffering." My Orthopaedic Surgeon recommendation was to marry the 2 bones was the theme for my inspirational writing. I laughed. I laughed for the first time. I started to find humour in little things. I laughed at myself.

The humorous writing and the speech got many people’s attention leading to # 1 Humorous speech in the Region of Durham. My scars helped me find creativity to help me cope with my life seeing life in a different perspective. Scars are there to help us examine our lives and to heal ourselves. Sometimes it is not the actual scar that is painful, but the scars that we carry in our hearts for long time. What do you associate with your scars? Scars can be a catalyst for transformation. Believe me, it works.

The day before my surgery, my 2 years relationship ended and I no longer knew what I was grieving about. Was it from the pain from the surgery or the failed relationship? I blamed it on the ankle for failed relationship, which at that time I considered valuable and helped me to live in denial for a short period of time. Scars can tell you a story. Scars have feelings. They are often an unspoken pain that is buried underneath the skin.

It is time for you to identify your scar, tell the story, heal yourself and celebrate their uniqueness. No two scars look the same but every scar has a story. Everyone carries a SCAR, some are visible and others aren’t. Some can tell their stories and others don't know how to.
Searching for the meaning of that scar in your life, making it through and becoming the “STAR” is all life is about. I have scars and you just heard the story of one.

Will you share your scars? Love and Hugs from

Bahi Krishnakhanthan
www.bahikrishnakhanthan.com

This is Miranda

This is Miranda's story.

I got this scar from a rusty nail sticking horizontally off of my house, one day, when I got locked out of the house. I got it a couple of years ago, when I was about 16 years old, in my home town in Alberta. Being locked out of my house, with my arm bleeding, I quickly ran to my neighbours house, where it got bandaged up.
In high school, my friends thought it would be really funny to draw on my scar. By adding eyes, ears, and a mouth around a long nose, or even into a *ahem* penis...it's just as funny to reminisce about it now.
In this picture, the scar has healed to the point where I don't think it will heal anymore. I was probably supposed to get stitches, but I didn't and I guess it didn't heal properly (picking scars isn't very good for it either).
I love adventure, and every scar is like a trophy I carry with me for the rest of my life.

This is Eli

This is Emily

This is Emily's story.


My scar seems like it has always been a part of me, but if I really think back I can remember a time when what was there in its place was a circular brown birthmark that my mother called my "chocolada." I remember feeling shy about it and not understanding why it had to be removed surgically, at the age of ten. It was removed because it posed a cancer risk. My scar reminds me of the fear, confusion and vulnerability I felt being anesthetized. It used to be a source of shame; a mark of imperfection. It looked rough, like it belonged on a pirate's arm. I used to lie saying it was a result of a skating accident involving a blade. I made it into something impressive to hide my insecurity about it. As I grew inside, my scar grew organically with me. It stretched out like a canvas across the architecture of my mature elbow and arm bones. Through a long inner journey I began to accept myself and embrace the beauty of my imperfections. My scar looks completely different from this new lens. The insecurity and vulnerability has turned into a resistance, beauty and acceptance. This is how it feels in my skin.

This is Jonathon

This is Jonathon's story.


This scar is from a hernia operation 5 years ago. It bothers me, both physically and emotionally...let me explain how. Physically the scar tissue itself hurts to the touch. I have a rare side effect of my surgery known as Post Hernia Pain Syndrome. Both the outer scar and the muscles underneath burn when I've been exerting. Days where I've been on my feet a lot, which are most as I love to walk, will often leave me feeling a pinch there. Sometimes this has been worse, occasionally to the point of not even being able to stand. Emotionally it is a constant reminder of weakness. I remember the trauma of the surgery that caused it, feeling like I couldn't survive another minute on the operating table. Feeling violated by the pushing and pulling as they so eloquently coin the sensation. I got the hernia during a karate class - something that has always been a passion of mine and now will never be an activity I can participate in the way I used to. Sexually, there was a while where I would feel great pain there afterwards, again a slap in the face making me feel weak and less than desirable. Ultimately I've been braving the pain which is less and less by the month, but I won't truly feel complete again until the remnants of the scar are completely gone.

Jonathan Robbins - actor

And this is what he said later: Those images are pretty fantastic. I wish the scar was more prominent, but I guess that's a benefit of doing this project for me - it helps me see how I perceive it much stronger than it actually is. That's a very wonderful thing about the camera - though it distorts and highlights based on the lens and settings, ultimately it does tell the truth, or some vision of it. And it reminds us how our own vision is just one, that doesn't necessarily have anything to do with the way others will see us.

This is Shara

This is Shara's story.

I have one hell of a scar on my back... When I was younger, around age 15 if I remember right! - I had bad scoliosis and wore a brace for a couple years, and when that didn't help my doctor decided to implant a Harrington rod near my spine and also fused some vertebrae (standard cure at that point for this problem). I heard all sorts of horror stories about what my life would be like after the surgery, but I have recovered well.

Often I have to sometimes be reminded there is an actual scar there. Obviously I can't see it all the time unless I really aim to -- if I wear certain shirts, people can see it and actually often will touch it, look concerned, and ask "what happened!" and "does it hurt?", quite a bit. The truth is, I think of my entire back/spine as a disaster area... I am disfigured by both the disease and the cure. When I see people with "normal", non-disfigured backs I get reminded I am all assymetrical and weird. I do like the scar itself in terms of...a conversation piece.

I also liked what you [Svea] said, in reference to your own scar, that it is actually a sign of your parents love for you (I feel the same about mine, actually, they could have said no to my risky surgery!), your personal endurance, and your body's ability to heal. That is quite beautiful.

This is Jeff

This is Jeff's story.

Jeff's wrist was crushed in a skiing accident. To repair it the doctors took bone grafts from his hip and inserted them into the joint; there is now an indent in his wrist, which he describes as 'geographical.'


This is Jeff's X-ray.





This is Jeff's hip.

This is Kevin

Kevin was in a car accident as an early teen. His spleen burst not long afterwards and he underwent an emergency operation. The doctors cut around his belly-button and inserted a tube just to the left of it.

This is Miguel

This is Miguel's story.

scar on my elbow. tried to run from one end of a balance beam to the other with my eyes closed in the first grade. reached the end and didn't know when to stop. broke my arm. shaped like a fishbone.

This is Nicole

This is Nicole's story.

I was washing the dishes when I was twelve or thirteen, when a glass
shattered. The cut it made between my knuckles on my right hand was
pretty deep but because of the hot water, I didn't notice it until
several minutes later. It seems strange to me now that such a banal,
forgettable incident has left a permanent mark on my body.