My landscape is ever changing.

New curves and 

Depressions

Always forming.

My hands are cartographers.

They began their journey at fifteen,

Mapping out the hills,

The mountains forming

Atop my chest.

The rocky surface of bones in 

Hips

Hands

Neck.

They discovered the valley between my thighs.

Journeying to find new landmarks and

Hidden treasures. 

At nineteen they continue the trek.

My hands scale the new surface.

Mapping out the changes

They cross oceans of 

Skin stretched from wars with

Alien hands that ripped

And tore

And broke down my landscape

Hands that left

Rivers of scars from the

Attacks

Rolling hills of muscle from

Repair

Seeking to mend the hurt

My hands carry on through the

Trauma

No matter what they find they take it in

Study it carefully

Going over the past and

Understanding

Forgiving

Healing

Striving to make foreign land

Familiar.