The human body mirrors itself: Two eyes, ears, arms, legs. What isn’t doubled is centered: Nose, mouth, navel, cock. To the eye, we are symmetrical, nerves and bones branching out, myriad, from our spines.
But symmetry is an illusion. We are, secretly, uneven. Our hearts are off center. We favor one hand. One eye is a fraction smaller. Hair curls stubbornly to one side.
He has chosen the strange letters that mark his left bicep, the flames that trail down his inner arm, bold, asymmetric designs that, oddly, balance him.
He cannot rewrite who he is, except on his skin.
I think I rewrote the second-to-last sentence 10 times!