Bulimic scars that tell tales of a ‘past ‘.
Grotesquely garlanding my face,
spreading like a botched tattoo
across my shoulders. Hidden under
sleeves to avoid bold What are those?
Second crop in my 40s curtesy of menopause,
apparently, my thin skin scars easily.
A stray piece of grit creating not a pearl
but a red, welt over my throat that
would need a scarf or necklace to head off nosy
Have you had a tracheotomy?
But over the last decade I have brazenly flaunted them
with strappy tops and swimsuits.
Still catch nods and nudges
and the odd blatant enquiries sniffing out scandal.
Know I should say mind your own business
but no point trouncing rudeness with rudeness
so, Wikipedia response that leaves them none the wiser.
No time to fret anyway when so much life to be had now.
But catching myself in mirrors, I notice they have in fact
faded with changing fortunes since you came along.

Fiona Sinclair

If you have any thoughts on this poem, Fiona Sinclair would be pleased to hear them.