Mark

They ask if there's a story.

There's not, just genetics,

just the randomness of how skin forms,

but I like that they asked,

like they think I'm the kind of person

with a past written on their body.

I used to hide it under shirts,

under high collars,

under the kind of posture

that made you invisible.

Now they trace it with their finger

and I let them,

and it occurs to me that my body

is a record of things I didn't choose,

a map of accidents,

a proof that I've existed

even when I wasn't trying to.

The shape is irregular.

Darker. Like something bruised

and then decided to stay.

They ask again if there's a story.

I say no, just chance.

But I'm thinking about all the ways

our bodies betray us,

mark us,

make us visible

whether we want to be or not.

I'm thinking about how long I spent

believing that unmarked skin

was the only kind worth showing,

that irregularity was something

to apologize for,

to cover,

to make small.

Now I'm forty and there's a person

tracing the imperfection on my shoulder

like it means something,

like I mean something,

like my body's randomness

is worth noticing.

I should feel grateful.

Instead I feel something more complicated—

the awareness that all this time,

I was the only one who cared

that it was there,

the only one who thought

it made me less.

They pull their hand away.

I don't pull away.

The mark is still there.

It will always be there.

Maybe that's the story.