Each scar tells a story.
The smaller scars, placed in many different places over my body tell of the time when I had the chicken pox and had to stay at home for a week. They wouldn't have scared if I didn't scratch.
The scar on my stomach tells the story of when I was a teenager and I was ironing my uniform for school. I was wearing my pyjama bottoms and a bra. I leaned too close to the ironing board and the hot metal of the iron burnt me.
The scar on my knuckle tells of the time when I was feeding my neighbours cat. My finger nicked the edge of the lid of the can. The sharp edge of the tin sliced the skin on my finger open.
The scar on my heart relays the story of how I fell in love, it tells all the details I don't share with anyone. But most of all it tells how badly it got broken.
Some scars may fade until they are so light they are almost invisible, but some never fade. They will always be there as a reminder of what took place in our past.