These are my body’s beauty marks,
Some visible and invisible,
Some permanent and some temporary.
My tattoo, an act of rebellion,
Yet contradictorily an act of faith.
We are all scarred,
Just that some of us show ours upfront,
While others choose to hide theirs.
My tattoo’s a symbol of faith,
A cross, the cross of Jesus,
Under which I submit,
That’s why my name is under not over.
A permanent reminder that I am under the cross,
And the cross is over me.
That’s visible, that tattoo,
But there are those invisible tattoos,
That show life’s is a cruel master,
Tattoos that still ache,
Still fresh, still bleeding though permanent.
Sometimes I love to play with beauty,
Get something out of the ordinary,
Let my body be a canvas,
Of art and design,
And as the henna artist slowly and carefully marks my skin,
With henna, dye and other concoctions I do not know,
I marvel at this beauty,
But gone tomorrow.
I carry my scars proudly,
Because they show my journey,
From a girl into a woman.
Potentash Founder. A creative writer. The Managing Editor at Potentash. Passionate about telling African stories and stories about the inclusion of minorities. Find me at email@example.com.
“We're all stories, in the end.” ― Steven Moffat