By Eleanor Potts
Ugly.
That’s how I once thought of you.
Blemishes, marks, intrusions.
Distorting my stomach,
Tugging at skin, at fat, at memories.
The flat stomachs of other girls impossible to achieve.
Hidden under long t-shirts,
I hated you.
Scars are easier to focus on than what caused them.
You made me remember.
My weirdness, my difference, my struggle.
Necessary.
Also, a word I’ve used for you.
A few small incisions versus a life lived.
“But you can hardly see them.”
I know, but you still can.
In fact, I’ve often wished you were more obvious
Red, angry, raised,
Noticeable.
I never felt noticeable.
You forced me to see.
My pain, my struggle, my hurt.
There.
That’s what you were not that long ago. Sometimes that’s still all you are.
Perhaps one day, as someone is taking off my top, they’ll ask me.
When I walk out of the house in a cropped shirt to meet a friend.
At the beach, maybe someone will point and ask:
“What happened?”
I still can’t tell if I would revere these questions,
Or revolt
As I run my fingers over you, I know what happened was real.
You teach me.
My story, my history, my worth.
Mine.
That’s what I’d like to call you now.
As I grow, you, my scars, seem to shrink,
Appearing to take up less and less of my abdomen,
A canvas of my life that has never been blank.
As what happened to me takes up less and less of my day, of my mind,
As I heal.
The same size, but I am bigger,
The same size, nonetheless.
You help me remember.
My strength, my power, my health.
Now, I don’t take you for granted.
