The Birthmark of the Port Wine Stain

My birthmark tis a vine,
a creeping cover growing outward from the inside

Red and purple blooms do adorn
the stained trunk and stem
with which I was born

Imprinted on the earth, which is my skin
A tattoo drawn by Mother Nature's own hand

Unknown is its beginning, unknown its end

Blood thirsty capillaries
Rooted deeply and roaming free
Savage they can be
Encroaching onto otherwise lovely faces
And devour them they do, in most cases

Yet, brilliant in design, vibrant in color
Sprinkled with patches of strawberry wonder

Threatened but not stopped by cold, heat, and removal
Rarely meeting with strangers approval

Yet, this tattoo of mine
is sweet yet sour,
like fine wine

This beauty with a curse to give
Not by force but by will
Shall remain for as long as I live
A part of me, I refuse to kill.