Mapped by Accident

They pointed at it

like it was obvious,

like I'd been walking around

announcing it,

broadcasting it

on my skin.

I went home and looked,

found it

where they said,

the brown spot,

pencil-eraser small,

sitting on my collarbone

like it had always been there,

which it had.

But I'd never seen it.

Not until they saw it,

not until their eyes

made it real,

made it mine,

made it something I had to know

about myself

through their gaze.

I touched it

in the mirror,

traced the edge

like it was new,

like I was discovering

my own body

the way an archaeologist discovers

something buried,

something that's been there

the whole time,

waiting to be noticed,

waiting to be named

by someone else's attention.

Now I can't stop feeling for it,

can't stop touching that spot,

confirming it's still there,

that it belongs to me,

that I exist

in the space between

not knowing

and being seen.