They can’t judge what they can’t see. |
Beauty is only a morning ritual As she stands in front of the mirror Tucking stray strands of hair behind her ears, into her ponytail. She straightens her collar, adjusts her belt And then pause. Slowly she lifts the bottom of her shirt To reveal an unhollywood stomach And there, an inch and a half above her bellybutton It sticks out like a mistaken crayon mark outside of the lines. The scar Ugly, protruding, yet perfectly natural. It’s from birth. The eternal question mark after the word survival. It’s grown with time, stretched and broken Never healed. A constant reminder of a life that may not have been. Her weight pushes her stomach over and around the scar Concealing it behind pale skin. I don’t dig chicks with scars, he said. She placed an absent hand to her stomach, hiding what was already hidden. Never get skinny. Don’t give them a reason to look and they won’t look, Won’t see, won’t judge, won’t ask. She looks into the mirror, at the marring scar. It’s her chain, her chastity. A moment of depression, despair, and then it’s gone. They can’t judge what they can’t see. She lowers her shirt. Lets some hair fall loose. Beauty is only a morning ritual. |