Writing with Juliet Iwelunmor

My left pinky finger hides a scar the size of a grain of rice. I barely remember it exists. Sometimes it’s better to never remember pain, to always accept being invisible even when your mark is clearly visible. Between all the lines and groves in my hand, this scars stays hidden on the sides of my finger. No visible marks if you look from the front of my hand. No other scar to pitch against the one on the pinky finger. Just a lonely mark, the size of a grain of rice, hidden on the side of my finger. We can expect that some scars are visible for all to see. Anything bigger than a dot is bound to be seen. Some scars also invisible, rarely seen, despite their overwhelming existent. My head often hurts from imagining how this scar came to existence. I have been told it’s a birthmark, a scar i entered the world with. I have also been told, that it’s what remained after my dance with fire. After I ignored warnings not touch a burning fire. If fire, I imagine the pain must have been fierce. I imagine that it would have pierced my soul as I learned the lessons of a burning fire knowing fully well that what remains, after the pain, will be utterly silent.