Stretch Not Scar

My shoulders are creased with scar tissue, with stretch and mark and a refusal to pretend.

Folks used to gasp in horror. Say ‘oh honey what happened to you?!’ And I’d think, do you really want to know? I thought about telling them of the walls my four year old face met or the boy down the streets knee on my stomach. I thought about telling them all of it. Finally, after someone asked.

But those were not their questions. They did not want to hear about how his careful hands knew better than to tare skin. Leave no scar, no sign, no story. Those were not the wounds of interest.

Instead they saw where my skin made way for fat gained from survival, from finally enough food, from comforting chaos, from life. They recoiled as if I’d shown them those deep belly scars where acid and anxiety burned through all barriers and not simply a stain of proud sustenance.

Then they’d coo and caress like they knew about the hardship of my skin, my shoulders, my self. And then in hushed tone they would offer coco butter or shawls. Anything to make it better, make it go away. And I could not understand why my growing should ever be treated as if it were gruesome.