On Damage

We don't like damage here. No dents in the cars,
Throw away what's scratched,
what's stained.

And I cut the bruises from the apples I eat
because I don't want something damaged.
I want something unscathed, not
Unbecoming.

And I flinch if they lean in
for a kiss
to shake hands
and my breath isn't perfectly minty enough
If my heart is hurting and if my mind won't let me hide it.

I don't like the stain on the corner of the hem of my t-shirt
Out comes the bleach, the soap,
And I scrub with brushes until my eyes hurt
from seeing a stain that no one can see.

I don't like the hair between my eyebrows,
black, and pushing through destroying two arches
Groomed and pushed and pulled into place.
So, I pick and pluck until they are naked and red and hairless.

And I don't like my freckles because they dapple my skin.
Imperfect and in need of concealing.
So I do.
I dab on liquid skin from a bottle
to erase the years of playing in the sun.

But

It is impossible to wear white in this life without grass stains
and spaghetti sauce splatters
It is impossible to work hard and play harder
and never scar
It is impossible to feel the grace of healing
if you have never been broken.

On damage I am still divided.
On the flaws of others I find myself fascinated,
and on my own?
I am still walking the path of curious acceptance,
moving forward then retreating
Pausing
To pick a scab only I can see.