Blemished, two toned, mutated… skin.
It spilled; the coffee with cream and it ran… ran up my right forearm, sloping into my underarm, gently cupped my right breast, and trickled around to my back.
Then it settled and stained like coffee does on paper cups. It’s a gladiators sleeve.
It’s a map, a map to nowhere, a map to everywhere.
It was the source of ridicule as a child. Is it dirty? Were you burned? They ask.
That’s ugly, That’s weird, They say.
No loves, it’s beautiful and its mine, all mine.
Later, it became a source of wonder. Can I touch it? Can I kiss it? He asked. Sure, caress it with your lips and trace it… trace it, ever so softly with your fingertips.
It’s beautiful, you’re beautiful he says.
Like a cow patch, he says. I smile.
Now, come back to bed.