My father asked me, 
”Do you want to get plastic surgery on your scar?”
At the time we couldn’t afford it. 
Health insurance doesn’t cover it. 
And I knew my parents would find a way, 
To pay for it if I wanted it. 

I didn’t. 
I didn’t want to erase the scar. 
I wanted to become the woman who didn’t have shame. 
I wanted to become the woman I imagined. 
I had her on a pedestal, 
As if she was impossible to become. 
At the time, she was. 
So distant, from who I was. 

”No dad, I don’t want plastic surgery. I don’t want to erase the scar.”

My scar taught me,
Made me think about physical beauty. 
And identity. 
Physical beauty,
Whatever that means to each of us,
Goes away.
And the word, "sexy,"
Always associated with physical beauty. 
Exoteric beauty.
Or at least, then. 

And of course, 
I was a teenager at the time.
With scars. 
Marks across my body.
"Will boys like me?"
An honest,
Human,
Teenage reaction. 

And that question,
Unveiled the desire to be desired. 
Though, 
The true sexiness comes from essence.
And essence is a mirrored reflection,
Of one's internal existence. 

I wanted to reshape the word, “sexy.”
I wanted it to become about,
An esoteric identity.

My scar is sexy. 
Who we are is sexy. 
Our humanity is sexy. 
The secrets we keep, 
The shame we hide, 
When witnessed, 
We become. 
Who you become because of your scars, 
Is sexy. 

Ownership. 
Is sexy.