Birthmark

When my grandma first held me in her arms, She started to weep Far from the immaculate picture of perfection she dreamed, I was tainted by a pink stain. Wine stain they called it Maybe that’s why I hate wine. The doctors promised it would go away But maybe as a first act of rebellion It decided to stay. As it grew alongside me, Extending to my eye, My parents took matters into their hands They took my body into their hands and into the operating room. Like a cow being branded, I cried and screamed and kicked As I was painfully moulded into a more conventional version of me. Albeit shrunken, My stain survived in all its pink glory. As years passed, I gradually became accustomed to the questions and remarks:
“Did your boyfriend bite you, babe?” from strange men on the street. “I think you have lipstick on your cheek.” from old women as they tried to wipe my face with their fingers covered in spit. And the classic “Who beat you up?” which I even got from the police. What I couldn’t get used to was sticking out. I wanted to be invisible in order to be safe. In order to not have my boundaries crossed And my space invaded By people I did not know Did not like Despised. So ten years later I went to the doctor again This time determined to walk out mundane. Only my mark would not be erased. Not after a session, or two or six. When the doctor gave up,
I finally realised I was relieved. I had internalised the world’s view on how I should be Never listening to my own wishes. The mark is still there And like all my scars I wear it with pride, not shame, A daily reminder of defiance and resilience In pretty girly pink.