I am not Casanova smooth.
My skin does not fold gently into the good light.
There is braille between my breasts,
a purple Pollock on my leg.
I have a swollen starfish beneath each wing,
a pink snake sailing across my belly
and a brown palm print on my hip.
I have a pale river rocking my knee,
and eggshell stars tattooing my toes.
There is a charred flower on my arm,
fading amongst the bloody weeds,
and tiny moons -ten of them-
glowing on my thigh.
Somewhere, is an ex lover’s name.
I have little red flags scattered
everywhere; not one white.
My skin is not Casanova smooth.
It is not a sunny day,
a Sunday afternoon,
an American sitcom,
a Concorde flight
or a paper laugh.
I let it all shine through because
it is proof of my pain and
I wear it with pride.
I love my tattered, tainted, runched up, swollen, tired, scarred, sore, skin. Do you love yours?