Stretch marks

You call them ugly?

Or do they make you hesitate,

Your fingers pulled back in a moment’s uncertainty,

Floating mid-air, till you decide to let it go,

And touch her anyway, and sweep away the memory under,

The rug in your mind which hides your basest thoughts.

You don’t know the battles they’ve fought for her,

Between men who sweep their hands over them,

And boys who tediously avoid the seemingly ugly lines.

You don’t know the countless sacrifices,

Between choosing what not to eat and

Deciding how much to starve.

You don’t garner the intense vulneraibility she lays hidden,

Within those bold stretches across her waist,

You just see the play of skin on skin,

And you keep your fingers away.