She said, "I hate my own skin." 
With so much certainty, 
That I couldn't help but frown. 
"Why?" I asked. 
"It's imperfect," she clarified. 
"It's scarred, blemished, and, worst of all, 
It's full of moles." 
She shivers and huddles deeper within herself.
I can't believe what I'm hearing
But reassurance is needed, 
So I take her arm and rub my hand up and down it. 
Then I speak. 
"Your skin is beautiful." 
I smile. 
"Your scars show your fight, 
That you may not feel right, 
But you're still here 
With us. 
And that's incredible." 
I cup her cheek, rubbing my thumb across it, 
Staring into her eyes. 
"And your blemishes remind us you're human. 
That nobody is perfect 
And that even the most alluring of people, 
Because that is what you are, 
Are really just the same as anyone else." 
I go back to the arm 
And flip it over to see a row of dots 
And my smile widens. 
"As for your moles." 
I bring it up to kiss them each 
Then turn to face her once more. 
"Do you know what we call them in Spanish?" 
She shakes her head. 
I lean closer, as if telling a secret 
And whisper 
Her gaze stares at mine in shock. 
"Do you know what that means?" I ask. 
I nod. 
"I hate the English translation of it." 
I turn to ramble off. 
"They name them after a creature considered ugly, 
And mark them as imperfections, 
When in reality, 
Like the moon, 
Those imperfections simply add to the beauty." 
I tug my sleeve down And show my own lunares proudly. 
"Don't you think they make boring old skin 
So much more interesting? 
Like paint in a canvas." 
I look up at her 
My eyes full of warmth and mirth 
I take her arm and bring it close 
"Like the brown spots on a delicious pizza." 
I bite it softly, and laughter precedes it 
Before I'm pushed back and laugh as well. 
She wraps her arms around me, 
And envelops all of me 
Into a warm embrace 
"Your skin is beautiful." 
I repeat myself. 
"I love you."
She responds in my memory, 
And I awaken to the sound of my alarm 
With traces of her warmth still surrounding me, 
And her words echoing in my head. 
I hit the snooze button and burrow deeper into my blanket 
Trying hard to go back in time, 
If only in my dreams 
Because, in the end,I never said I love you back enough.

This poem is about: 
Our world


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