I am folded mass, too loose skin, unkempt spine
and expanding scar tissue
you cannot find me under
all this body
I wear mistakes
forever -- my scars dark purple
circles colonizing my legs,
red and pink like roses
twisted and rising from the
surface like low mesas in the
desert on my shoulders
keloiding is the mistake of over
eager
white blood cells
every break in skin healed
becomes alien threat and the guards of
the body keep sending more
scar tissue
so it grows
and grows
how long before I am all misshapen numb scar
warped and expanding
and
I am already so wrong--
thighs and hips and stomach and chest
uncomfortable in light
I’ve never seen a body like mine loved
see how tissue shifts like rivers on my chest
where years of steroids and long-shot surgeries
have only slowed an eventuality
have you ever wanted to disappear
I don’t want to disappear.
Rowan Lynam is a journalist, poet, photographer, and student currently working out of Chicago, IL. They were born in Charleston, South Carolina and earned a BA in English Literature with a focus in refugee and migratory lit. They served as the editor in chief of Clemson's newspaper and on the It's On Us national committee to prevent sexual assault. Their journalism focuses on underserved communities, and they are currently pursuing projects concerning immigrant detention, free speech on college campuses, and transgender women in Chicago. Their poetry and creative writing has earned them publication and award recognition, and they continue to pursue new and experimental forms of voice. Rowan is agender, and uses they/them pronouns.