When
I see myself in the mirror every morning, a few breakouts are sprinkled along
my hairline and between my eyebrows. The shadowy circles under my eyes have
been carved on from poor sleeping habits and anxiety. My feet shift restlessly,
rough, calloused heels rubbing against each other. As I change shirts, I can’t
help but study my armpits, the skin there darker than the rest of me, nearly
the same shade as the sensitive flesh of my innermost thighs. Sometimes, my
hands wander and gingerly prod the additional breakouts erratically scattered
across my back. Sometimes I scratch the places where they’ve scabbed. Then the
underwear slides past my knees, and I have another area to scrutinize.
My
mons pubis is discolored and scarred from years of plucking, pulling, and other
painful hair-removal methods. I hated the way it looked when I had just begun
puberty. All through high school, I systematically groomed myself, breaking the
skin often because I was careless so it’d bleed, scab, scar, and score yet
another mark on the tender triangle of flesh between my legs. I don’t exactly volunteer
this information right before I sleep with someone, but I usually try to dim the
lights by the time the both of us are naked.
None
of my partners have ever breathed a single comment about any of the things just
mentioned though. I have moments of doubt, in the split second their eyes flick
down to drink in the sight of me, that they’ll see what I see, spot what I spot,
hate what I used to hate but now merely agonize over. They never say a word.
They open their arms, draw me close, kiss the curve of my neck, and my
insecurities fade into the background again.
Maybe
they never notice them. Maybe they do, and don’t care. Maybe they see them and
like them for what they are: every scar, every mark, every scab, every
discolored dot of flesh—a collection of tiny (im)perfections that coalesce into
someone flawed. Like me. Maybe none of it matters once the clothes come off because
there are telltale faults on the landscape of their bodies, and when I see
them, I realize how quickly they’re forgotten in the wake of exploring other
secret corners.
The
older I get, the less important my body issues become. Eventually none of this
will mean anything at all.