trading scars

He gives me this:

"7 stitches deep across my waist.
From the accident."

He is an open wound -
says his scars are beautiful,
speaking about them as though they are people,
the women in his life -
this one mothered him
this, loved him.

In return - I give him this:

"On my forehead, a burn.
I was four. I should have been more careful."

He tells me it is perfect.

And we trade stories about imperfections
on our bodies,
pretend that we can see them -
confessions in the dark.

Soon
my scars go back into their hiding places
while his
glow underneath plain white cotton -

he is his own god

these scars, his prayers.