He gives me this:
"7 stitches deep across my waist.
From the accident."
He is an open wound -
says his scars are beautiful,
speaking about them as though they are people,
the women in his life -
this one mothered him
this, loved him.
In return - I give him this:
"On my forehead, a burn.
I was four. I should have been more careful."
He tells me it is perfect.
And we trade stories about imperfections
on our bodies,
pretend that we can see them -
confessions in the dark.
Soon
my scars go back into their hiding places
while his
glow underneath plain white cotton -
he is his own god
these scars, his prayers.
