Flesh

“I can try to freeze it off,” the dermatologist says, running her fingers across the birthmark on my forehead. My mother had done the same countless times when I was a child. Reading it like Braille. “I am yours,” it told her.

Sebaceous nevus.

Hardly noticeable, but I part my hair to my left to cover it. As I age, the mark grows coarser, beckoning me to read its message. I can’t stop touching it. So I want it gone.

Liquid nitrogen burns, freezes. Skin blisters beneath fiery cold. Slightly smoother skin surfaces as it heals. The message only half erased.