There were patches of skin on her body that would build, and turn white, and flake.

She was always self-conscious of those areas, to the point of tears, but I called them my kissing map, as each patch would lead my lips to the next. In the dark, the spots revealed themselves in their texture, like delicate wounds. How different they tasted, how strange that skin felt against my own.

I would always kiss those spots, in hopes that my lips would convince her that she had nothing to be self-conscious about around me. To ease, and share their burden.

To acknowledge that she was flawed, as we all are on earth, but I still loved and accepted her, despite it all.