Starting from puberty, my stretch marks hit main street. Aka my boobs. While other girls were slowly filling in, I hit the ground running with stretch marks haloing the tops of my breasts. Making tank tops, tube tops, any kind of top that wasn't to my neck the first line of sight.

They progressed as I got older, through my seasons of change. Middle school I got them starting at the back of my knees and the inner part of my shoulders. They became red angry armors that showcased together. High school I got them on my waist and then on my hips and lower back. In college I got them at the tops of my thighs and the bottom of my breasts.

Now as I'm in my late 20's my stretch marks continue to progress. My roads now intersect. Some try to meet each other half way. They had elongated and curved. My upper torso is a little round culdesac of stretch marks. I get ingrown hairs in my stretch marks, the dreaded pimple every now and then.

I've had my weight always fluctuate and as I think of having kids, I wonder how much more stretch marks I'll gain. Will my body become 75 percent silver roads, no stop signs in sight. Will they get larger, wider and will how will my skin cope with the loss of softness to be replaced with endless dips.

I looked in the mirror today naked and I examined them thoroughly. I felt shame. I felt sadness. I felt uncomfortable. But why. My skin is not elastic like most. It's sensitive, it's ever changing and it's mine. And I will continue to accept and find love in my city. In visiting it and embracing and doing my very best to make sure it flourishes. Because I like visits to my city, my city thrives with company. I only have one body, and mine just so happens to branch out then most. And that's ok.