I have a scar
That makes it look as if my belly is smiling
like Mona Lisa, a half smile, curving up, and out.
When I stand before the mirror
I cover it with my right hand, automatically,
Pretend it isn't there.
When I try on a bikini
It has to cover the smile, securely.
When I strip for a massage,
Or change in the gym,
I turn aside from prying eyes
And hope they do not see
the ragged rip dividing me in two.
When I was five years old, I nearly died
And the scar saved my life.
So, strange that I reject
what I should embrace, with thankful joy.
Sad, that I can only see the ugly and the now.
If it did not exist, neither would I,
My scarsmile, my reminder,
Here, I shall thank you,
Here, and only here, I can reveal.