A few days ago, I burned
my collar bone
with a wide and sizzling
curling wand.
Next day, I spent the morning
picking oranges from my tree
(not in Venice, but charming nonetheless)
and scratched my hands up
on the fruit-filled, rough branches.
These self-inflicted wounds
look worse than they feel.
Handsome scars—evidence of
the messiness of living.
If only they were all that way.
© 2025 Jennifer Wagner