Center Fold

The shirt pulls tight

where skin dips in,

a small shadow creased by a loose thread.

I look down at the soft fold,

that hollow caught beneath ribs,

more map than mark,

a place no one notices

until it’s pressed or brushed

or the light finds it just so.

It holds the weight of skin

that stretched and folded,

remnants of where I began—

a quiet center,

sealed and silent,

like a secret no one asked for

but I keep anyway.