dot my cheeks,

each a different backstory,

a different backhanded

snarl, you're so beautiful.

This sun-dried skin is tough

as the sandpaper coastline

kisses my feet

with its roughhouse caress.

Stars dot my cheeks,

each a black hole,

consuming with it

a wave of subconscious

self-conscience littering my mind.

I look in the mirror.

Are they that pretty

or just brown blotches

or burgundy blemishes that simmer

beneath the skin of that sunburned cheek

I turned the other to?