Secrets

My scars make him feel uneasy.
They scream out to him at night,
reminding him I’ve been damaged
by myself;
crazed woman.

To him, the birth mark stretched across
my rib cage is a flaw
that cannot be erased

and the stretch marks that
cascade around my
backside are unworthy
of admiration.

I tell him to fuck off
with a smile,
the freckles on my cheeks
migrating up my bones.

I strip down in my room, alone,
and let my hips swing to the pulse of music.

I am well with the secrets
my body tells.

(m.r.m)