I have been marked
-in a way that taunts me
“this skin,
this soul,
is no longer pristine.”

The shame of failed love,
brands me like a tattoo.
Pigments sculpted through layers of dermis
telling their stories of light and dark.

Each one different.
Each one unique.
And I keep adding,
until perfection is reached,
or the canvas is full.

Names penned in blackletter-
Banner waving
carried off by sparrows aflight.
Wrapped in a blood red heart,
and pierced by an arrow.
Entangled in flowers and vines,
as if Nature were reclaiming their name as Her own.

With every passing year
they fade,
they stretch,
they settle deeper into who I am.
But they are never beautiful.

As I gaze at your marks in disgust,
I bandage my own.
Never once occurring-
they have caused you the same pain.
And that just maybe,
your gaze is returned,
not in disgust,
but in empathy.