Face: Spots from accidental chemical burn, chin. Gray dot from shitty oxidized nose ring, left nostril. Deep scratches from cat that didn’t want to be held, left cheek. Place of last meaningful kiss, forehead.
Back: Filled in with freehand script of Allen Ginsberg’s “Howl,” Part I. Stronger than it looks.
Arms: Raised scar from homemade high school surface piercing, left. Smattering of old cigarette burns, right. Half sleeve covering less muscular arm, left. Ripped forearm from writing or carrying stuff or handjobs, right.
Feet: “Mom” tattoo of Erlenmeyer flask filled with iodine solution, right. Oversized tendon from scar tissue buildup, right. V-shaped toes from years of pointy shoes, both. Confused blanched welts from tight sandals and broken glass, both.
Legs: Dead purple 6-centimeter suture, right ankle. Large-scale Virgin of Guadalupe and hard white scar I never tell the truth about, left thigh. Painterly peacock, right thigh. Spider vein supernovas and nicks from sloppy shaving, both.
Knees: Raised pinpricks from first knee suspension, both. Rugburn scar from scratchy dorm carpet, right. Perpetually weak from motorcycle fence-crashing accident, left.
Teeth: Strangely serrated incisors. Right molars noticeably worn down from years of use as beer bottle openers.
Breasts: Zig zags of lavender stretch marks. Toughened scar tissue from retired nipple piercings. Slightly bigger, left. Adorable beauty mark, right.
Left rib: Slightly lower from opposite due to small fracture fixed (?) by months in tight-laced corset. We’ll see.
Torso: Lines from books by Jack Kerouac and Erlend Loe, right side. Meaningless Latin script, lower abs. Twelve holes and two sutures from six-point three-minute resurrection suspension, both sides.
Hands: Chipped nail polish, pool chalk color. Hangnails, perpetually agitated. Knuckles, perpetually dry from steramine. Large amethyst from grandma that’s apparently bad luck, ring finger. Unreadable love line, right palm.
Cunt: Anatomically flawless via scissors and silver nitrate by gynecologist/aesthetician who found “something that looks like a polyp on your inner labia, want me to remove it?” No anesthetic.
Skin: Handled waxing, cutting, piercing, tattooing, electrocautery, implants, third degree burns, flesh suspension and sutures, not one professional massage.
Fingers: Haven’t touched anyone like you since.
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Understand that it’s not easy to hear how someone you love very much is dissatisfied with you.
You know we are in the thick of summer when you leave your apartment and on the 10 minute walk to the subway you are basically DRENCHED.
I’m not crazy, and this idea of us did exist outside of the dusty corners of my mind.
Our desire to connect is hardwired in our DNA. It’s part of what makes us human.