The Line

The strap line is so stark—

pale skin meets red,

a map of what I shed,

what I left bare in the dark

of not paying attention.

I put on a tank top.

The damage in the mirror made me stop.

It was worse than yesterday.

I should have remembered to spray

the sunscreen on,

should have known

better,

should have taken the time

to protect

the parts of me

that got burned instead.

It hurts to move.

Not dramatically—

just a constant reminder,

a proof that I didn't do

the thing I know

I'm supposed to do.

The redness is spreading down my back.

I can feel the heat radiating

off my own skin,

the way the sun

got in

where I left myself

unprotected.

Everyone can see it.

The line. The color.

The way my skin doesn't match,

the way I let this happen,

the way I got caught

doing something

I should have prevented.

It's just a sunburn.

It's just the thing

that happens

when you're not careful.

But I'm sitting at my desk

and every movement

reminds me

that I forgot,

that I was careless,

that I let myself

get damaged

in a way

that everyone can see.

The line will fade.

The redness will go.

Eventually,

my skin will remember

how to be one color.

But for now,

I'm here,

hurting,

visible,

wearing my mistake

like I have nowhere else

to put it.