The First Scar

The locker room smells of bleach and old steam.

I stood before the mirror, the light

sharp and unflattering on my skin,

and saw it there—that strange, puckered dip.

A bit of lint sat in the center of the knot,

a small, dark closure where the cord

was finally cut and tied off long ago.

It’s the only wound we all carry,

the original break from the body

that grew us, a permanent divot

reminding me I was once held by a thread.