not about cutting. let me get that right out there. more like adoption, abandonment, my many surgeries, and the like.

shirley temple tragedy.

i opened myself up
and looked in from
the outside;
i didn't like what i saw.
raw and red,
held together with rotting thread,
my body is my monument
to imperfection.

the braille of my body
tells a story i cannot recall,
reading like a modern-day
shirley temple tragedy.

(my scars sing a million songs
in an ancient tongue best forgotten)