Scars

'Scars make us who we are.'
Never the permanent ones;
They neither heal nor hide,
Rather attract unwanted attentions.

Whereas, the ones from repeated snapping of
Rubber-band around one's wrist or strike of 
A metal scale on the tender skin of inner thighs
Or even better belt on the  back, perfectly
Concealed and always effective,

Leaves enough welts to make known their existence,
Ruddy, swollen, thick scrapes, invisible to others;
Not over the same spot for long, though,
Getting habituated diminishes the chances of pleasures.

Few days and they are gone, cleared and healed;
To make space for new ones.
Like life does with each one of Us.
But
"We've got to live, no matter how many skies have fallen."