Marks
Marks denoting the stretch, the pull, the beautiful elasticity of my skin. I marvel, as I stroke my ripples; slightly punctuated by raised skin – soft yet rigid, bumpy and prominent in some areas, whilst faint in others.
I love them. I hate them.
Love, because they are part of me. They are a reminder of the brilliance of the human body, of its ability to adapt, its capability – irrespective of how much I adore or loathe their ability to accommodate me – come what may.
Hate, because, I can’t help but feel cheated by their intentions. For as long as I can remember, stretch marks have been synonymous with pregnancy. Mother’s often speak of their tiger stripes, battle scars earned on the journey of child bearing and all of the joy that it brings.
Skin tapestry akin to wonderment, at the prospect and experience of housing life, of nurturing the spirit and soul of a whole human-being-to-be.
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But… what for us… those of us adorned with marks of stretch, yet no fruit of labour (or loins) to celebrate? Are our battle scars inflicted in vain?
Why do our stretch marks – beautiful or otherwise – mock us so?
Rippling in low light, taunting us as permanent reminders of unfulfilled possibility; of skin stretched without purpose, other than the burden of accommodating simple loss and gain, of fat?
© 2019 Comfort
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