Scars in the Bathroom Mirror

I wasn’t planning on using my scars to write poetry today.
it arrived unbidden
as I huddled into the bathtub, slipped
buried and throbbing under the skin of my thigh
Busted apart capillaries, a map, a mark.

So no, I wasn’t planning on beautifying this ugly today.

But it seemed to need prettying.
some foundation, lipstick, blush-brushed-in.
That thin, pencil red across my forehead, I see
As I peer into the mirror to brush my teeth.

I reassure myself –
I have non-Revlon, non-make-up girl skin.
No one will notice the faint red cropping on my face.

My upper lip is cut.
Oh fuck.
I am crying, now.
Eyes pressed
On the toilet tissue paper, I leave
perfectly articulated etchings
flustered lashes,
humiliated by the night black kohl


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