Unmarked

There's a freckle on my collarbone.

Small. Brown. Permanent.

Exactly where my shirt collar sits most days.

I've never apologized for it.

Never caught myself

in a mirror

and thought:

that shouldn't be there.

Never felt

the weight of it.

My therapist said I apologize

for everything.

For my voice.

For the way I take up space.

For the gap between my teeth

that I've had since I was eight.

For existing

in the exact shape

I exist in.

But this freckle.

This small mark.

This thing that's been

living on my skin

for longer than I can remember—

I don't apologize for this.

I looked at it today

in the mirror,

really looked,

and felt something

that wasn't shame,

wasn't regret,

wasn't the familiar weight

of all the things

I'm supposed to

fix about myself.

It's just there.

Like a comma

in the middle of a sentence.

Like a pause.

Like proof

that I can exist

without permission,

without apology,

without needing

to explain

why I'm marked

the way I'm marked.

The collar will cover it

most days.

No one else will ever

know it's there.

But I will.

And for once,

that's enough.