Last week I burnt my arm accidentally
Three thin lines
From a metal buckle in hot laundry
Stupid
But I can’t stand the marks on my skin
Next to the old white scars
I’ve covered one wrist
In blue and red ink
But the other is bare
I once believed I’d always want to be reminded
But I don’t
Isn’t that its own revelation
I don’t
They say all your cells turn over
Every seven years or so
But that’s not quite true
Some replace themselves in months
Some I’ll have from birth to fire
And my veins have deep memories
Maybe I’ll ink a sword wreathed in flowers
A blade to protect rather than harm
I love my body and all its battle scars
But my skin doesn’t need to be a cemetery
I am allowed to plant trees over the graves
And build houses in their branches
Isn’t that its own revelation
With Love,
Natalie