The Mark

The pale band on my arm

where the ring pressed all summer—

white against brown,

a border my skin won't let me forget.

I didn't watch it form.

The tan came patient,

the ring stayed still,

and underneath, my skin

remembered what it was before.

Before him? Before the weight

of that particular gold?

Before I learned my body

could hold a shape

that wasn't my own?

The ring's in a drawer now.

The pale will darken.

The line will blur

until I can't see

where I was marked.

But standing here wet in the mirror,

the division is stark.

I can read it like text—

where I was held,

where pressure became proof.