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.
I am crying, now.
On the toilet tissue paper, I leave
perfectly articulated etchings
humiliated by the night black kohl