Tragedy of fty Curves

SCARS, embedded on the frame,
Dashing deep through the soul.
Mirrors all around,
Each curve has a tragedy of its own.

Peeping through the glass,
The echo as clear as the sky
Maim on the skin,
mangled into scabs.

Feasted on her breasts,
The first meal as an infant,
Her eyes were the cardinal view,
Heedless of the hour, we grew.

The piquancy of bonbon hit the palate,
The crèche was supposed to Illustrate much more,
The first boy who caressed my curves,
Seemed more bewitched by stains on my smirk.

Each ounce of skin on me,
Contributes to blisters on my wrists,
Or maybe it is the lack of lard therein,
That seized me to exist.