Poetry

I once had a birthmark on my left shoulder. 
A baby screaming in agony bore this mark,
the result of an injection
which was meant to protect 
my helpless body from infection. 
From danger.
 
A neat little sliver of protrusion 
surrounded by a crater, 
the moat to my microcastle. 
It once proudly stood alone, 
a landmark against impurity.
 
My forefinger would sometimes 
drift off towards it and circle cautiously,
perhaps its feeble attempt at time travel,
taking me to my days of perfection,
of honeydew and home movies.
I would once again feel familiar fingers 
that ran over the lonely guardian, 
as they washed my flawless skin,
fingers kneading all along 
those puny yellow-brown arms.
 
I may still have the mark today, but I can't be sure.
My forefinger doesn’t drift anymore.
It wouldn’t dare to navigate around the
swarm of pustules, boils, cysts 
that now stand tall, surrounding the terrified knoll.
The moat rendered hopeless.
Furious volcanoes, land mines 
so eager to burst forth from 
this toxic, etherized land,
pulsating like a horde of smartphones 
buzzing in sync to form an earthquake.
Nothing could stop them but goddamn,
do they infuriate the perfect child in my dreams 
who glares at me scornfully, every night.
 
My eyes cannot meet his.