I’ve learned to cherish my stretch-marks, they tell me I’m made of stars. My skin lined with liquid star dust, that shines and glimmers even in the dark.
Speckled on my skin like a man-made universe- marks of all I know and feel- claiming my suffering, my love, my fears, and ensnaring them into something mine, something pretty, something real.
My mom is marked with streaks of life, decorating her smile, her thighs, the corner of her eye- a trophy of life, a trophy of laughter. A trophy of love so big, she received a heart and gave hers to another. My favorites are the ones on her stomach- a few gave me, some my sisters, and some my brother.
Mine look a bit like hers, galaxies are hereditary and she gave me a quarter of those. Her translucent lines tell stories a plenty. Sing of a bloated belly, painful contractions, not much contraception but much attraction.
But sometimes comes a day where she counts them all and wished for a spaceship to fly that part of the universe away. I have now found a way to tell her I love them all the same; they’re battle scars of a hero yet to believe in her own name. Just as I see you, please try to see yourself in the same way.
My grandma’s hips remind me of clear skies- all smooth, streaked with white airplane lines.
She laughs at them; they remind her of getting old.
I want to tell her they’re proof of the years she’s defeated, of counting money in her office, scraping her knees on the edge of the river or scratching herself on the many cacti she plants.
I want to tell her they should remind her of flying high, landing low, leaving behind seven grandchildren to blossom and grow.
I remind her that where there’s contrails, there are planes. Where there are planes, there are people, and where there are people, there is love.
My sister’s scars are ghosts of the past, carved gloomily in the skin of her arm.
Chiseled by a scalpel, sculpted with stitches, smoothed by our parents’ tears and hearts. Nonetheless she must know- it is still a work of art.
The crisscrossed lines hurt when the weather changes, they make my sister moody. I think she’s accepted it and thinks it’s funny- that she’s a walking station of meteorology.
And in times when she doesn’t like the sky and clouds more than her scars, I try to love them as if they were mine. They’re battle won scars- akin to our mom and depending on her mood she either fought a tiger, defeated Voldemort or conquered a war.
She doesn’t have a galaxy inside, she has got a storm and when it gets too cold, I’ll always be there to keep her warm.
Our marks is how our life tallies all the years we took from her. Keeping tab of our stumbles, our falls, our broken bones and broken hearts.
She writes on us her jokes and her own stories. Her adventures, her discoveries and her own glories. Life paints on us sunsets and skies- our skin and minds canvas for her brush and she gladly trails us with fairy and star dust.
And next to all of the above... ...my favorite imprints are those of life’s love.