moles pepper my face, my body. 

on every part of skin there are many—

constant and content in the civilizations they have formed.

“why don’t you get rid of it?”, she says to the big mole on my face,

and i’m embarrassed for a second, truly,

 

to have a hideous feature on a part of me where all eyes gravitate,

breaking the symmetry in my face,

and commanding terrifying attention.

 

but getting rid of it feels wrong,

because my mole carries sealed memories of childhood—

blurry and vibrant-hued.

it feels wrong because God is the one who sculpted me, 

and with immense focus, He painted my body in constellations,

each dot a distant cosmos.

my moles hold life like signs on a hike,

marking how high i’ve made it up mountains.

and finally, though with hatred, i’ve tried to scratch them off, 

they embrace my sweet skin with tenderness and determination.

so i embrace them, too.