I am teaching your fingerprints
to paint by freckles
rather than number the
beauty marks that decorate my skin.
I am not flawed flesh.
I am human being.
The first time you touched the emotional scars
that were raised across my body,
your fingers became like sewing needles
and each print left a stitch.
I began scratching though there was no itch.
I began clawing at skin.
I told you to paint over me instead,
because there is no fixing past casualties.
I told you to paint over each scar,
I’d rather be covered in beauty;
I’d rather fix myself.