I hope it left a scar.
Like the metal gate on the farm to my left hand as I carelessly swung it open.
Like the hard dirt and rocks at my cabin to my knee as I came bellowing off a dirt bike when I was 9 years old.
Like the surgeon's knife to my upper lip in attempt to repair my birth-given defect,
no,
not that one,
that was to clean of a cut.
I hope it cut you deep,
and the wound was not properly cared for and got infected.
I hope you picked at it for weeks before you finally gave in and let it heal, and even then
I hope the scar of me will haunt you for the rest of your life.