Saturday, August 11th, 2012
Hair, scars, and stretchmarks are sort of the same thing:
the start of a conversation you’d rather not have.
If I let them, they carve holes in my ego.
But I won’t wait until nightfall to soak in the ocean
or turn out the lights before he can find the shape of my waist.
Instead I make the most of hair, scars, and stretchmarks;
nearly naked in the sun, I hope they find the eyes
of those who wish I’d cover up and be quiet.