I carry the memory of you like one does her stretch marks
–Bearing them alone and in silence,
Oft seeking to soothe them into nothingness,
Or Caress them into non-existence.
–This, how we deal with our womanly scars that whisper of victory, Of life.
But MY scars remind me that my womb is naught but a grave buried in barren soil;
That the only time I lived was when I bore life, or rather one yet to be born.
For the days when sapplings burn
And youth dies before ripening
Your hopes are consumed with them.
And the only memory of love you have is when it left,
When your body became both birthplace and crime scene
–white chalk outlines on grey pavement: the only proof you ever loved.
So instead of wearing these scars like one wears dutiful sacrifice,
I cover them in layers of coco-butter and thick linen,
Because you are all the parts of me that I’ve learned to hide
–every blackening scar that I can’t afford to erase,
Every mark that burns the cold memory of you into my being,
Every scarred star,
And trace of perfect darkness.