Washing the Past by Anesce Dremen

                          ​Odd Wellies CC



​Washing the Past

They cover enough
but reveal everything.

When naked in front of the mirror,
I find myself standing a little taller,
even if tears trail occasionally downward to greet them.

Within a curtain of water, I often lose myself.
Fresh scars shriek when I shower.  
Irritated red lines protest at
less pressure than that which created them.
Guess I’m proud of the hot tears
that persist every time I lather.

Step out of the shower
and silence the screaming scars
-- Momentarily
with a towel.
                                                          Quick!
Rub them raw again before
slathering lotion
in hopes that they shall fade to a slight line
in which others rarely distinguish.

I see them every time.
I am saddened when they fade.

I want to sew a short, crimson dress.
Something that doesn’t cover me. 
Something composed of 
               scarlet                              screaming
                              bleeding                           heaving
                                             staining                           reviving
memories.
White skin fading to reveal my nakedness.

I want to be the only one to
know that my sexy scars exist.

Instead, I pull pants over them--
the pain is duller, and 
my eyes empty when
the skin screams against contact.  
My skin.
A scrap of cotton
against fresh wounds.
A belt pulled too tight- - -
Its buckle biting into bitten-ridden hips.

Smile at the pain
and pray the fresh blood doesn’t
stain your new, yellow pants again. 

But if they do stain,
Will I hide that, too?
Why do I cover these scars?
They make me sexy;
They tell what I am forbidden to.

Why am I ashamed to wear red-splotched pants
when I fantasize about presenting myself
in entirety—scars proudly revealed?
I am my own artist.

Why do I cover these scars?

Why do I cover my scars?
They won’t fade.
Their numbers reside in the hundreds, possibly more?
I stopped counting three years ago at seven-hundred and thirty-some.
Their pattern an ugly design,
beautifully crafted
and invisibly appreciated.

​

Anesce Dremen is a first generation college student who studied in four cities in China (Xi’an, Beijing, Chengdu, and Suzhou) with the support of the Critical Language Scholarship and the Benjamin A. Gilman Scholarship. She graduated from Carthage College with degrees in Chinese and English literature (creative writing concentration). Her bilingual work has been featured in the Midwest Journal of Undergraduate Research, Carthage Vanguard, the Xi’an Daily, and Shanghai Poetry Lab. While her academic work takes a critical lens to culture, death, and intersectional feminism, her creative writing ranges from fiction to nonfiction to poetry. While updating her travel blog (NeverthelessAway.wordpress.com), she can be found with a tea cup in hand, traveling between the U.S., China, and India. Follow her journey at @WritersDremen

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