Marked Edges

I trace the shape like a map,

fingers slow on stubborn skin.

Mother said it’s geography —

a place where I began,

an old wound turned signature.

Brown patch, not quite symmetrical,

not quite a story told,

just a stubborn shape that stays,

waiting for light to change it.

Morning light softens the edges,

but I see it sharp as ever —

a mark both mine and not,

etched without permission.

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A birthmark does not speak,

but I hear it in the quiet.