By Rachael Abrams

The first week that he and I had sex, my boyfriend accidentally rolled off the bed and scraped his back on the corner of my bedside table, leaving a deep gash that eventually became a faint purple scar. The initial pain was pretty bad, I assumed: post-coital, he leaned over to grab some tissues from my table and leaned too hard. He and I looked closely to see his shredded skin, a tiny wrinkled beige strip, hanging from the Ikea table.

Although not noticeable until he takes his shirt off, I know as soon as I see it that he has the scar because of me. I have mixed feelings about that – he has a medical condition and thus has already been scarred up from surgical procedures along his otherwise perfect abdomen since he was a baby, and now here I am, tainting another otherwise perfect canvas, on a guy that I had only just started seeing. Now, regardless of whether or not we stay together, I’ll have marked him in some way. Have I trapped him, in this way? It almost isn’t even fair on my end. But every scar tells a story, and I have plenty of them and stories to match. I suppose it’s only fitting, though, because I want to be a permanent part of his story.
Rachael is a self-hating freelance writer that can bite through most things. She likes comedy writing, is an HBO enthusiast, and master of making inappropriate remarks seemingly on cue. She hates the heat and would probably live in an igloo if it were cold enough. You can find her on most social media, including her Twitter here.

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