“The Mark” — A Spoken Word Monologue
It was a heart-shaped birthmark…
on my neck.
For some, it was in the shape of butt cheeks.
(Let that land.)
Growing up, in school after school,
they made it a joke.
Said my butt and breasts were conveniently placed
around the same area.
Convenient for them to laugh.
Inconvenient for me to exist.
Most times, I laughed with them.
Sometimes, I laughed at them.
But all the time…
I cried inside because of them.
My parents?
They were kind.
Supportive.
Understanding.
They always said: “That mark makes you different. Unique.”
But that was my problem.
I would’ve wanted to be unique…
if everything else about me was the same as them.
But it wasn’t.
So my head tilted down.
Always down.
To hide the mark.
Eyes rolled up —
just enough to see if the person in front
was about to talk to me
or laugh at me.
And in high school,
they gave me a new name: “Neckflix and chill.”
Cute, right?
So most of the time,
I was just decoding tones —
Were they mocking me?
Were they real?
I finished school in isolation.
College in exhaustion.
Barely scraped through.
Then, one night,
I heard her.
My mom.
Whispering to my dad: “Maybe we should have gotten it operated on when she was still little. I can’t watch her be single her whole life. We have to do something.”
It came from love.
I know that now.
But God — it stung.
Because that wasn’t the world.
That was home.
I made a plan.
Packed my bags.
Fought.
Lost.
Left.
Far from home.
Far from mirrors.
Far from familiar sadness.
And I worked.
I worked hard enough to make my mark
where no one could see it.
Promotions.
Pay raises.
Performance reviews.
And then —
I found him.
He worked with me.
Worked well with me.
Laughed with me.
He talked about the birthmark like my parents did.
Gentle. Dismissive.
Safe… almost.
But deep down,
I feared one day
he’d say what he really thought.
About how I looked.
What I carried.
I considered surgery.
Thought maybe if I erased it,
he’d never have to pretend.
And then…
we talked about starting a family.
I was terrified.
What if my child got the mark?
Or something worse?
I had survived.
But could they?
The world talks about empathy.
Talks.
But I’ve never seen it walk.
He was calm.
He listened.
He held me through my
rage,
worry,
my need for control.
And somewhere along the way, he said: “She won’t have it. Don’t worry.”
I felt small.
Ashamed of fearing something
I had fought to live with.
Ashamed for wanting the world
to just be normal to me.
And in that shame,
I finally understood my mom.
I prayed.
Felt the pain.
Comforted myself.
And repeated.
When she was born,
I closed my eyes tight.
Not from pain —
but in stubborn refusal to see it.
The heart.
The butt.
The reminder.
Then —
a shake.
A voice in my ear. “There’s no birthmark!”
I opened my eyes.
Looked at her.
I have never seen
a more beautiful neck
in my life.
And for one split second —
I wished it were mine.
This wasn’t just her birth.
It was my rebirth.