My therapist calls it a crease. As though my forehead has overslept after a night of tossing and turning and now it needs heavy-duty ironing. And yet, I like this noun. Perhaps I can call every fold and fumble on my skin a crease.
When I sit, that is not fat forming around my belly. They are creases. All those scars on my forearms? Creases.
My lover stores poems in my creases. But the noun chosen is furrow. Sometimes it is used as a verb: “Your brow is furrowed and I like this.”
I am unaware of when it happens. This noun of waves or verb of worry.
I furrow on the subway. I furrow when I make love. I furrow when I am in my nude, in the bath or upwards in shower. I furrow when I am eating a meal that steals all my words. I furrow when I am reading. Perhaps this is my resting face/place.
Creases or wrinkles or excess of skin does not have to be a bad thing. In fact, I quite like my folds. Media tells us to be smooth, but I like people to know I’ve lived and continue to do so.
My body tells the story of me when I am too shy to.
My body does not allow me to skip pages. Every inch of me speaks out my history. I like this. It reminds me I have one.
So, I’ve got this furrow that for a brief time was covered due to a poor decision called bangs.
I was recently asked (by my therapist) to think of a part on me that I can say I like. For over a week, my answer was empty.
Finally, I know.
I like something about me.