Say there’s a mark on your face. It’s not a scar, it’s not a mole. It’s just a shadow in the shape of a penis. Say you were born right in the middle of an electrical storm. Your mom pushed hard for ten minutes and, wrinkly, wobbly, and new, there you were. Bloody, screaming, perfect. Whatever pain you felt, you won’t be able to speak of it. Not tomorrow, not the next month, not ever. You will forget the trauma of leaving the womb and it’ll be as though you were always here, on Earth.
You’ll say things like, “Fuck, man, I’m so high right now.” And you’ll be, indeed, high as fuck. You’ll keep secrets to yourself and life, life! will be yours and yours only—your own life. But there’s the mark. The shadow. The shape of a penis below your left eye. Like a teardrop, but not quite.
“We should wait until he’s five to remove it with laser,” your mom will say to your dad. But that laser removal will never happen.