Moles

I want a lover to touch them and whisper,

"Here you have a constellation of stars."

He'll trace them with the tip of his finger.

 

 I will tell him that moles and birthmarks

are the evidence of your death in a past life.

I have always been stabbed in the back.

 

He'll laugh at ugliness he has turned sweet

and I at sweetness I've turned bitter.

Then we'll cover ourselves in the bed sheet.

 

This poem is about: 
Me

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