The Kissing Map

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.

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