Marked

There's a line on my shoulders

where the shirt ended

and the sun kept going.

I went to the beach

and lost track of time.

I was there for hours

and I didn't feel the burning

until I couldn't not feel it.

Now I can't move without remembering

that I was there,

that I existed in a body

that could be marked like this,

that could hold evidence

of where I'd been.

The tan line is sharp.

The skin above it is angry and tight.

It hurts when I reach,

when I move,

when I remember

that I spent that day

on sand,

in sun,

becoming proof

of my own presence.

I'm wearing it like a map

of somewhere I went

and came back from

changed.