04-23-2015, 07:57 AM
The Marks of Me
It was a spring day when when I was four
when they first started,
these scars that would never show.
I was wearing an Easter dress,
frilly and pink,
and I remember twirling it so high
my underwear must have shown.
For years,
I blamed what happened next on myself.
I spent the next ten years in hiding
whenever we visited Grandpa:
under the house in the crawl space,
breathing in red clay and mold
beside the decapitated lawnmowers,
under the embroidered end-table cover
curled in a tiny ball
breathing in dust bunnies
one eye peeking through the holes
praying he wouldn't find me.
You might think this poem is about
lost innocence,
and you'd be partially right.
Mostly it's about lost shame,
because I stand up now in the sunshine,
showing the whole world my marks.
It was a spring day when when I was four
when they first started,
these scars that would never show.
I was wearing an Easter dress,
frilly and pink,
and I remember twirling it so high
my underwear must have shown.
For years,
I blamed what happened next on myself.
I spent the next ten years in hiding
whenever we visited Grandpa:
under the house in the crawl space,
breathing in red clay and mold
beside the decapitated lawnmowers,
under the embroidered end-table cover
curled in a tiny ball
breathing in dust bunnies
one eye peeking through the holes
praying he wouldn't find me.
You might think this poem is about
lost innocence,
and you'd be partially right.
Mostly it's about lost shame,
because I stand up now in the sunshine,
showing the whole world my marks.