Numbers and lines defined me

for years.

 

The scale dipped and rose in waves

But, it never settled flat.

 

Each year,

on the same date,

the routine was the same.

 

The family trip to the coast

was only a trip for some.

 

The towel would swaddle me

in the heat.

 

While my family set out to explore underwater treasures

of smooth glowing, green glass shards

Or distract themselves from the heat

by plunging into the sea

unknown to me,

 

I would start tracing the lines.

The lines on and within

my thighs.

 

They had several names

Tiger stripes.

Lightning strikes.

 

All their names bled power.

Instead, they made me feel

powerless.

 

The sweat dripped down my neck.

Pooling.

But, the fear crawled up it faster.

 

I always sat in my chair,

my designated safety net.

No one could see me

And I couldn’t see anyone

But, me.

 

I was only eight.

When from the magazines and films,

I already I knew I wasn’t

“it.”

 

I forced myself to shiver in the heat.

In hopes of lying to myself.

 

The line between the sand and sea

Was drawn in chalk

While imaginary to others,

it was clear to me.

 

There were always lines everywhere

The sand and sea

My hips and thighs

Me and I.

 

However, I began to disconnect

From what I have heard,

saw, felt, ate,

touched.

 

I started to see the beauty

hidden under the lines.

 

My annual routine stopped.

The towel started to constrict,

not clothe.

Choke,

not hold.

 

Dropping the towel,

I stepped over the line.