Why, there’s a mark on my arm.

A serrated, jagged, adorable mark on my arm.

 

My arm mark has many relatives.

They are not identical, but related.

 

Why, there are dark marks and white marks on my arm.

A bruise, no, a mark indeed.

 

My dark marks have aged well.

They are fine wines in a Bordeaux showcase.

 

Why, my white marks are flaky.

A white mark is freshly born and burning.

 

My arm marks have distant relatives, too.

They are just beneath my belt and have been there the longest.

 

“Why?” you may ask me.

“A mark, a memory,” I’ll respond.

 

My marks do not mean the end.

They are, quite honestly, a fresh beginning.

 

Why, if there are never new beginnings, why end?

A foreshadow of my future, my marks.

 

My polka dots are permanent.

They are lifelong commitment.

 

Why, believe it or not, some say my marks are an excuse. 

A cry for undeserved help.

 

My marks are not a plea, thou wretched beast.

They are in fact priceless works of art that I get at no charge.

 

Why, I’ll be around for plenty long so there is no need to worry.

They are solely marks, or are they?