peachpenumbra@googlemail.com
26/08/10
The scar on my right knee is a ghost of the fresh wound gracing my left. A remnant of childhood all but forgotten with advancing age and more pressing bodily concerns. This new lesion is as sinister as its location, a raw disc of flesh of perhaps two inches in diameter, rich red and sticky to the touch. Fifteen years separate the injuries, but the specific soreness of a scab stretched over an often-used joint is as familiar as my last meal or the décor of my room. I flex the skin slowly and savour the feeling: searing white anachronism.
