Mother

I remember the long scar across her stomach,

Horizontal below her belly button.

I remember when she first came home with it,

That pink ribbon of raised skin

like the bow on a birthday present.

I touched it gently.

I asked her if it hurt.

She said no, but she was crying.

She hated that scar.

Another thing 

that made her 

imperfect.

Another scar to add to her list, this one on her stomach,

The others riddled through her brain,

her heart,

her eyes.

A woman made of scar tissue, 

living in a world of broken bottles 

and promises no one means to keep.