I don’t have the perfect skin,
it’s easily bruised, damaged
and paper thin
– along my spine there’s a constellation
of scars, across my chest a large pale birthmark, it
extends down behind one arm.
I fell a lot
as a child, I was clumsy,
the pigmentation and hypertrophics
remind me. There are stretch marks
and hair removal marks and acne marks
where I grew
And blotchy veins and wrinkles that appeared
before I knew.
Sometimes they’re overwhelming
Amy Moretsele is a twenty-one-year-old who writes for that sensation of easy breathing that follows word vomit and has recently begun to write so that she can dream of a future with more writing involved (aka she writes to write to write).
About This Poem
This poem is a portrait with words of sorts, of my body and the life it's led, whether I like it or not