Specked

There's a blue freckle resting above the cusp of my left ring finger's veined knuckle. It formed when I was twenty and has frustrated and kept me company since. Tying third with my siamese toe freckles, it remains at the top of my list of Top Five Strangest Freckles On My Body (the runner up going to the freckle on my right hand that is in the same exact location on my big sister; the grand prize going to the red freckle that is in the same exact location under my big brother's- and grandfather's- right eye).

I've never met anyone with a blue freckle before; just below my skin, I scratch at it sometimes, trying to remove the epidermal layer separating it from me. I do so hoping to connect with it, touch it- make it feel at ease so it knows it isn't the only one of its kind. To remind it that it isn't alone in its rational freakishness.

Clever little bug, it never falls for my tricks and instead remains steadily out of my reach, surfacing just enough to be noticed and acknowledged but never quite coming out of its safety zone- never quite allowing itself to fall subject to change, normalcy. A chance like being every other freckle speckling my left arm like dots on a spotted egg.

Unique, special, unlike any other, stubbornly it dances untouched to the beat of it's own drum. Just. Like. Me. It reminds me that I am alone in my irrational freakishness.

I fucking hate that freckle.