sometimes i wonder
what it would be
like

to live in a body
without scars.

i see them all the time
on boards and glowing
screens, on pages
and in songs, those

women

made

of unmarked pages.

when the pen digs in
laying ink down
and buzzing against
the bone

it leaves a word.

but they
the virgin pages

are silent eggs, blank and
white.

i’d
rather
be
criss
crossed

at least, once it heals
up.