Visible

The hygienist leaned in close

and asked if I'd gotten

the stain out.

I thought she meant my shirt,

some coffee I'd spilled that morning,

something I could wash away.

But she pointed at my shoulder.

At the brown patch

I've carried for thirty-nine years

like a neighbor I never look at,

like someone who's been so familiar

I forgot to see them.

"It's a birthmark," I said,

and the words felt like an apology,

like I'd been caught

wearing something visible,

like the patch had been there

in every mirror I've stood in,

and I'd just been choosing

not to look.

Now I can't stop touching it.

Now I know it's there.

Now every stranger can see it

before I do.

Now my whole shoulder

is that patch.

Now I'm the kind of person

who carries a mark

everyone else noticed first.