When the Sun Painted My Skin

Someone gently holds my chin, lifts the brush,

and sweeps a thin red line across the bridge of my nose,

as if this moment could transform me from just a child

with freckles and a soft mouth

into something more.

I don’t blink. I watch the sky reflected in their eyes,

the way morning always transforms into something else

if you wait long enough, heat rising,

a slow glow blooming across my skin.

The paint carries the scent of earth,

clay finely ground between careful fingers.

I picture it flaking by dusk,

that by nightfall I will revert to just being myself again.

But now, in this quiet pause,

I am a story being painted onto my skin.

A bright stripe, a promise.

The tip of the brush hesitates,

as if it knows more than I do

about how symbols endure,

how they root themselves deeper than any cut or bruise.

I breathe in, feeling the soft bristle press against my cheek,

the warmth of the hand holding my jaw steady

so I don’t turn away. In this close stillness, everything glows,

the tiny hairs along my temple,

the fabric crowning my head,

the red pigment that says you belong, you are becoming.

I close my eyes, just once,

to feel the last stroke

complete the shape I cannot see,

and when I open them again,

I am transformed.