I look at my thighs
and can no longer tell the difference
between the scar and the stretchmark,
one thing a mark of growth, the other of bloody sacrifice.
/
Regardless of their past, these etchings no longer
ooze the redness they once birthed. They sit, engraved upon
my silent skin, holding on to memories and nightmares,
both distant tales around which my soul is entwined.
the musings of a miss 