My scars are alive. They dance and undulate–tightening now when I wince–remembering the campfire.

My fiancé and I loved camping, eating ribs by the fire, smearing grease all over each others’ faces. Our oily lips slid as we tried to kiss. We collapsed giggling and yelled, “Pucker up, lover!”

After we wore ourselves out laughing, we’d roast marshmallows; Rob had skewered four marshmallows, setting them ablaze. He waved the delicacies through the air trying to put out the fire, but hit my face instead.

Yellow and orange flames seared my jaw, then crawled down my neck. I swatted the flames, but the grease on my face and hands acted as an accelerant. The sickly sweet tang of burnt flesh hung in the night air. I felt my face melting.

Afterward, all that was left was the gut-wrenching smell of charred tissue and unspeakable loss.

That was the day I was marked with a permanent smile, a neck ruffled like an old-fashioned petticoat, and hands that looked like wrinkled red gloves.

While I was in the hospital, Rob and I played poker and bet tic tacs. He applied ointment to my raw skin when I went home. I sang him love songs in cartoon voices to: A. distract him from my appearance, and B. reassure him I’d make a delightful wife.

However, when he spoke to me, he’d massage the back of his hands while his eyes darted around the room. He would never admit it was my changed appearance, but after a failed skin graft, Rob canceled the wedding.

The rejection left me physically cold, so I wore sweaters that summer. It was the closest thing to being held.

When townspeople saw me and wanted to avoid any awkwardness, they crossed the road– they ducked down another aisle at the grocery store. I knew it was time to leave.

Moving to a new town felt strangely freeing. I learned to divert peoples’ attention by telling jokes. Humor became my trusted weapon. When people were bent over laughing, they forgot about my scars.

Everybody commented on my ‘winning personality.’ Soon, I ‘won’ my way into an IT job. Of course, they wouldn’t put me at the front of the store, so I was hidden behind a partitioned cubical in the back.

I tried to understand and turn it into a joke, but my ruined hands knotted into fists. The scorched skin pulled tight. I wanted to hit something, but ate three doughnuts in the break room instead.

My co-workers gave me sympathetic hugs and told me I was a ‘good sport.” I surprised myself by welcoming the hugs. It felt like dew drops on a wilted petal. People go crazy without being touched. I didn’t want to go crazy.

Most days, when I’m not torturing myself in front of the mirror, I can almost wish Rob well…almost.

Letting people get to know me, without hiding behind jokes, is hard. I practice by going to my neighbors’ for coffee. They lean in and listen as I ramble on, their eyes sparkle with genuine curiosity that makes me feel seen. Sometimes, they even let me hold their baby, who extends tiny star-shaped hands to touch my lips.

Those are the days I defiantly brush my hair in front of the mirror. I anoint my damaged neck with perfume and inhale its voluptuous aroma. Those are the times I am seduced by my own potential. Those are the times I contemplate the endless possibilities of an unblemished and mighty spirit.