Sharpie and Scissors

I look down at my 9-year-old thighs.
They run at super speed across the wide, sunburned soccer field.
They stun my brother when we wrestle, 
turning me from weak little sister to “Cena Champion.”
They make me the strongest swimmer in the crowded neighborhood pool,
lifting me to victory in every round of  “Chicken” on my cousin’s back.

I look down at my 12-year-old thighs.
They are double the size of my friend’s.
I imagine drawing a dotted line in black sharpie around their edges,
knowing exactly where to dig in my pink flowered scissors so I can look like her. 

I look down at my 15-year-old thighs.
I reach for my trusty sharpie 
and black out the sides of my legs, 
the dark fumes making my eyes water.
With the lights off, I could imagine—
just for a second—
that I was perfect.

I look down at my 18-year-old thighs. 
They are stained with thick, black soot,
branded by unwanted hands.
But my sharpie and scissors protect
me with vast creativity, 
destroying any desire he had.

I look down at my 21-year-old thighs.
In the campus bathroom’s harsh fluorescent buzz,
I trace where the sharpie used to go,
trying to remember who first taught me
to carve myself into someone smaller.

I look down at my 24-year-old thighs. 
The ink has faded to ghosts—
thin shadows beneath softer scars.
Some days I run my fingers over them,
not to peel, but to remember that 
I am capable of healing.

Someday, I’ll look down at my thighs—
my hands aching as I dig through the remains,
the ink-stained habits,
the years of trying to redraw myself.
The dark pool below me isn’t ichor now,
just the heavy shadow of everything
I once believed I had to cut away.

Hannah Rieger

Hannah is a senior Integrated Language Arts
major and an aspiring high school English
teacher who hopes to share her love and inspiration for poetry with the world and her students. If she isn’t writing or teaching, you can find her on the couch with her kitty, Maki, reading a book.