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Holding my hand,
he walked me along the lines
when what I wanted to do
was to read between them
in the poetry of his days,
of his past,
of his soul

he hesitated
giving vague excuses
that it’s too soon
as if there were other
more important things
left for us to do
but I knew:
he was afraid
his scars
would scare me away

it’s funny
I never even tried to disguise
the ugly imprints
of my own bad decisions
fossilized on my skin
or even bothered to
pat Neutrogena concealer
on the still-warm echoes
of my recent falls from grace
or even think
it was worth the effort
to throw a veil
over the festering consequences
of my many lapses of judgement

I stood in front of him bare
webbed stitches,
stretch marks
and all

and all he saw was a crowned goddess
his Venus de Milo
epitome of perfection

still he wonders
if he’s good enough for me