The light shade of pastel pink,
from a graceful ballerina’s shoe,
takes a perfect circular form on me.
As if a thumb print,
gently pressed onto my shoulder.
This smooth strawberry
is more than a smear of beauty or defect,
but a mark of individuality.
Patiently laying on my shoulder,
waiting for some token of appreciation.
But I was ashamed.

Neglected my fair-skinned shoulder,
protected it from the world’s cruel eyes.
No one could critique
what they couldn’t see.
To let my golden hair of dead strands
lay lifelessly
over my shoulder,
It was easy to hide my birthmark
under a mask of makeup,
like it was a hideous monster,
that would scare the world.