The Map of What I Am


A Poem

Photo by Kamila Maciejewska on Unsplash

my skin tells its tale

in the ribbed etchings

marring a pale canvas,

all the better for gossip

and snide comments

scars are the words,

jutting out in relief,

like embossed marks

cradled against leather,

supple to the touch

but ridden with history

you ran your fingertips

along a crescent moon

that was actually a bite

from a scared dog’s crime

you don’t ask which ones

I made on myself, if any,

but therapists always asked

as if I were hiding secrets

standing out in plain sight

tattoos get the glory

while scars get pity

or curiosity

or blunt questions

but you never ask,

and I never tell,

and so the scars stay

my own vague mystery

while you trace destinations

along the map of my skin



Jillian Spiridon

just another writer with too many cats