Faded Scar

“What’s that thing on your ankle?”
she says, pointing at a fading charcoal scar.
“I don’t want to talk about it”
I say with too much acid on my tongue.
“Tell me” is the reply,
in a way that says or else.
“An ex cut me with a razor and
rubbed soot from the hearth on the wound.
It’s her name”.
Bewildered she asks “You let her do that?”
“Yeah. It’s her name. She wanted me to remember her”.
“Would you ever let me do anything like that?”
“No. That was a different time in my life
and I guess you came along at the wrong point.
I have different issues now”.
At that, she put on her skirt
and walked out the door without
uttering a word. I haven’t heard
from her since.

The memory of her has faded like the tattoo.

I’ve been reading too much Bukowski.