I am sorry.
When I saw you appear on my hips, stomach, and breasts
I thought of how I didn’t care much for horror movies,
and I especially disliked you.

I swore off wearing those short tops,
even with the high-waisted jeans.
Because what if that guy,
I-sorta-kinda-maybe-like somehow sees you.
What if he points, while his friends laugh.

I’d go home and cut deep into you.
Hoping that the man-made scars would take away this godly gift

I am sorry I once mistook your beauty as anything less than
powerful lightning bolts giving me strength.
Strength to realize, that any guy that laughs at something as beautiful
as the rose vines that frame my body,
will not make me or any woman happy.

So now here I am,
in my short top and high-waisted jeans.
Thinking about how much I love the way
you paint my body like a canvas.
And how much I really do like horror movies.