Tattoos. I’ve never wanted a tattoo. Tattoos are permanent, like pen. You can’t erase pen, unless you get those cheap “erasable pens” that leave those smeary ripped pages at the bottom of your backpack.
A beanbag chair is neither made of beans, nor is it a real chair. It’s more like a Styrofoam pillow. My sister had a pink one. I remember bashing her over the head with it, repeatedly. She’s linked to me forever, like a pen mark. This is not something that you can see, but it exists…it is there. Just like my “pencil mole.”
How can I explain it? One day I had smooth white skin, and now I don’t. I guess that’s how I can explain it.
I was sitting in the beanbag chair. Amber was there. We were roughhousing because that’s what we did. It wasn’t a pen—it was a pencil. I heard it snap under my skin before I felt the pain. It had been lying near the swollen pink “chair.” There was bubbling blood, red and viscous. A warm streak of magic marker red.
I thought the mark would fade. I thought it wasn’t permanent—after all, it’s only pencil. But as the days drifted by I came to see—came to realize—that my new mole wasn’t going anywhere. So there it sits. It almost looks like a regular mole. But it’s not.
A pale, lead-colored dot on my left foot, my angry big toe. No amount of scrubbing will make it go away. And I guess, that’s okay.
