Bulimic scars that tell tales of a ‘past
grotesquely garlanding my face,
spreading like a botched tattoo
across my shoulders. Hidden under
sleeves to avoid bold ‘What are those?’
Second crop in my 40s, courtesy of menopause,
apparently, my thin skin scars easily.
A stray piece of grit creating not a pearl
but a red, welt over my throat that
would need a scarf or necklace to head off nosy
’ Have you had a tracheotomy?’
But over the last decade I have brazenly flaunted them
with strappy tops and swimsuits.
Still catch nods and nudges
and the odd blatant enquiries sniffing out scandal.
Know I should ,‘Mind your own business’
but no point trouncing rudeness with rudeness ,
so - Wikipedia response that leaves them none the wiser.
No time to fret anyway when so much life to be had.
Now I notice they have faded, it seems
with changing fortune, since you came along-
If you have any
thoughts on this poem, Fiona
Sinclair would be pleased to hear them.