My Fruited Flaw

I wear

this strawberry

of a scar,

flash it like a pass

to get into the VIP area

of myself.

This is my flesh

declaring its beauty

by way of what it's been

through.

This is my body

declaring its ability

to be held,

not just tapped.

Red

with the labor of learning.

Reeling

from the heat of healing.

Ripe

with the power of knowing.

Finally in the glow

of my berry

—in this scarlet shine

that is the sweat

of a fear buried to sprout

something better—

I see myself clearly.

I pour cream on it

and call it dessert.