Origin of Scars by Otito Greg-Obi

My neighbor bet me 5 bucks she 

could jump her bike clear over 

my knee. I didn’t believe her 

of course— but she had a belly 

button piercing and butterfly 

clips in her hair and always let 

me sit with her at the pool and 

bought me ice cream sometimes

so, I let her try anyway. 

I ironed a church shirt for my mom’s 

best friend’s son. He calls from time 

to time, but I never answer.

I shed and shrank to look like a girl 

my ex kissed in a basement one time. 

When I’m nervous, I pluck the ingrown

hairs on my belly one by one. Leaving 

little burials behind. 

I hug my friends across from our 

favorite Ramen restaurant. I stare 

at the liquor store 

wanting. 

I cross the street. My body wraps 

around three thousand pounds

of steel. The driver doesn’t stop.

I wake up in an ambulance wailing 

for my mother but call you to come

and meet me at the hospital instead. 

The navel is also a scar.

The uterus has the only 

tissue that sheds

without scarring.

Otito Greg-Obi (she/her) is a Black queer poet and plant mom. Her poetry appears in "small poems for the masses." She’s currently a contributor at Unpopcultr, a media publication dedicated to amplifying the voices and work of BIPOC creatives. Cover art is by Neha Misra, “People of Color’s Perennial Dreams of a New Reality,” which can be found on THE VISUAL.