My leg are a familiar sight.
I like the veins in the top of my feet.
Tendons crawl as my toes wiggle around.
The tan line from my slippers
flip flops, I guess.
Chipped polish; I can't ever keep it looking nice.
There's that spot on my ankle that the razor
always misses.
My eyes graze over my shins,
the two huge scars
and the ones in between, filling the gaps between purplish gashes.
I made up stories for those scars,
adventures that didn't happen.
Maybe I wish they did.
For those who don't buy my tales
I take out my pen.
The scars become monsters with fangs
and angry eyes.
My knees bring on nostalgia
of summers
filled with rollerblading and climbing trees.
Bug bites
in the little indent just next to my kneecap.
Hardest place to scratch.
My thighs
scabbed and bumpy.
I just itch sometimes;
I can't help it.
My freckles.
My freckles I like.
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