Pale skin that burns in the Sun,
Dotted with constellations of moles
I worry not to scratch whenever I bathe.
On my arm there are four like a cow’s face:
Eyes and nostrils.
Counting since I was a child,
On every part and on every limb,
On my palm, one needle-prick brown,
On my chest under embossed bra lace,
One orange-red.
Hip bones like tent poles
Pushing out against my skin,
A distended stomach inbetween
And there, seven small marks that
I saw sprout.
One solitary under my eyelid
Two sisters on the crook of my hip
One on the blue veins of each elbow
& one on the middle of my collarbone
Like a pendant.

…

A. R. Tivadar is a hobby writer from Romania and a graduate of the University of Oradea. She has been published in Alien Buddha Press, Low Hanging Fruit, 100subtexts magazine, RIC Journal, Motus Audax Press, and 15 other online literary magazines.instagram: @a.r.tivadarlinktree: /ARTivadarneocities: artivadar.neocities.org