I have freckles on my body. I don't hate them, but I also don't love them. I always find people swooning over them, offering up their sincerest accolades. I never asked to be given these natural tattoos, and they seem to reside in the strangest places in even stranger assortments.

I resonate with my freckles as I symbolize them as stars. At first glance, it is difficult to determine whether a star is good or evil, per se. In other words, if they are a shooting star or a meteor. You are forced to pour trust into that little dot, hoping it is good. In the same way, I must trust my own self. Nevertheless, there are situations in which I must also take a risk on myself and hope that I a shooting star rather than a meteor.

My Little Constellations

These freckles dance across my body.

A shower of constellations

An assortment of waltzes

Skeletal fingers

Connect the winding dots

Admiring what they believe to be beautiful

These tiny craters

Tracing my figure

A permanent roadmap

Tattoos I didn't consent to receive

Forever pierced onto me

They smile wickedly at me

I watch in awe as they soar

Near and far, confiding in one another

As tears roll down my face

For the most defeating thought

Comes to mind

Amidst this encounter

Could they be shooting stars?

Or meteors craving destruction?