Telling Stories

There is a scar on my index finger

A jagged line on which is written a memory

It matches the marks on either side of my thumb

Pale white dashes devoid of pigment

Where cells have stitched my story

The bumpy patch on my right knee

Is a tapestry of it’s own

And where my rings reside

A stripe of silver hides

Away from the sun

I anticipate with bated breath

The fine vine lines across my chest

A signature of enthusiastic consent

That this body has been made

A little easier to live in

All this in the hope that

When I reach the age of telling stories

The young and old amongst my audience

Can follow along with me

The wrinkles and lines all over my body

Will make for the easiest of readings

And the text will have been illustrated

Through the simple act of living