Now, you look at me
and spot my arm
across the kitchen table,
and instead
you look
you see
those older lines in blazing white.
These sentiments they mark mean more to you
than the lines around my eyes,
from a brow furrowed in frustration for twenty years.
Or, the mottled lines across my thighs
from where my body grew to fit my mind.

Why does my upper arm reflect my general attitude to life?
Any more than the lines around my mouth
from fits of laughter flying out,
or in my careworn hands
seen grasping tight to other hands
so much that there are lines.

And even though as children we write lines at school
until we cannot help but see that
"repetition will leave a mark".
And even though in every day
we all suffer - loss, grief and pain
in equal measure to our
joy, relief and gain
...you cannot see a line for what it is
a telltale sign of that desperate condition
known as life.

And after all the lines we draw
define us in relation to everything else
and the lines I drew upon myself defined me in relation
to the pain I felt not
as the pain I felt.
And if you look at me now
am I not a specimen of perfect health?

So why do you draw lines on me
that arrow point to labels
because my wounds take on this milky hue,
where yours were clear tinged salt tracks from your eyes
that filled a swollen belly, bony thigh or toned physique.
And all results of hollowness significant as mine.

And tell me,
what crime do I stand accused of but for feeling
with the true extent of who I am -

and leaving marks to show that I
am not afraid to feel tender
cry out,
sob gently,
and even
when I'm pushed too far
get ******* angry.

And are you telling me you don't know what I mean?
That across your body, mind - there are not lines you drew
in reaction to people, places, circumstance you knew.

And if not then may I suggest
you get in line
for a new mind
and a brand new pair of eyes
...before you wryly look across
the table at my upper arm
and ask me where I got my scars.