Scarred

there’s ink on the back of my ankle, remnants
of a day when my mind decided that leaving
a permanent mark was the quickest means to survival.
it follows me in every step that i take, constantly
reminding me of its presence in glimpses of a mirror
and quick remarks from prospective lovers. the man
who held the needle did not a speak a word
but rather enlarged the image and took a hundred dollars
with him. how many people have asked for this
same symbol in the same location with the same story?
i am one with these women but the ink is too big and too black.
look away from ankle and up to my eyes, they hold the pain
and the power. i’ve joined the cult of women whose bodies
are tainted with starvation. yet, do not associate me with them,
the ink is behind me for a reason.