I look at my arms and all I see is imperfection and scars.

Everyone's arms are straight and clean and unblemished

But mine are...

Scarred, broken, beaten, ashamed.

Ashamed of what they are.

Ashamed of what they've done- or the lack of the things they've done, rather.

Even they, in this vast ocean of bodies, are forgotten about, though they're used so fluently.