Stretch marks

 





Like lightning strikes of crimson ripping across flushed  flesh.    
Rippling down the curve of my stomach, a waterfall of scarlet welts flowing from my belly button.    
Twisting wine stained vines curl up my hips.  
 My fingertips follow behind tracing the lines.  
 They are angry and red and bring nothing but dread.    
I want to carve them away and tear off my skin. They make me sick and ashamed.    
But I am the one to be blamed.    
My hands shake and my heart breaks.    
My stomach sinks and I can't think.  
They are all I see.