Self-Portrait of Stretch Marks, Shaya Bock

My skin is spandex. And the net of scars that holds it together,

A highway connecting thigh to ass,

Back to shoulder. A Collagen stamp

Best-by-date since expired,

Creeping around my elbow,

Into the hidden nook of my bicep, engraving

That dear secret of self-hatred

I had promised to never tell.

Coconut oil. Lathering the bumps as if to melt butter

On toast, kneading the lumps of fat like buboes pressed flat

Under a burning palm. I know that marker is permanent

But I still doused that chicken scratch with acetone

And scraped my hips to flush the shame, if I pinch my belly fat

Just the right way,

A rainless rusty-clay riverbank will appear as my skin

Of dead soil wrinkles and desert-stretched deltas;

But my marks are also a web, the red silk

Seam between limb and torso, a delicate-spun

Line-work, affixed with otherworldly intention,

To a facade heavy with the crowded veins of ivy

And set to bloom morning glories.