One thing I miss most about my childhood,

besides my blissful naïveté,

is getting roughed up,

falling down.

Scraped knees,

cracked scabs,

bloody noses,

bruised shins.

The little red-stained messes resulting from living hard,

existing rough,

playing dirty.

Raw palms,

smudged faces.

Now the bruises are tokens of drunken stumbles,

the battered knees souvenirs of a sexual dalliance,

the blood but a monthly occurence

and the smudges left over from last night’s application of mascara.