I wish this wasn’t a poem
but her skin is so beautiful;
pale white, with a hint of
inner venous fire.
Her snow forearms are coated
with black and red birds
where needles inscribed
memories ////and/// impressions.
The flock of ink flies away
into the unreachable mandala
perspiring behind her dark eyes.
I wish this was a poem
and not reality.
I wish I wasn’t talking about
the unscratchable itch we all have,
the heavily dense hormonal air,
the infestation on her forearm
screaming on the white cuts.
I I I I I I I
A different kind of poem
she wrote,
on her own forearms
with her own hands.
Methodic
and devoted to expression.
The white parallel lines across her
ink-based forearm
I I I I I I I I I I
I wish this wasn’t a poem,
but her skin is so beautiful
pale white, with a hint of
inner venomous fire.
And I wish this poem was about a poem
and not about
The insidious goo that makes
me want to write with a sharp knife.
But my blade, my pen,
doesn’t cut the flesh
I I I I I I
but it pokes through other places.
And I wish this poem wasn’t about how
she felt the need to bleed her despair,
how we all bleed, and let bleed,
how we want to stop hurting,
how we can hurt others instead.
But her skin is beautiful, pale white,
with a hint of wanting to stay alive,
with a desire to nourish and be nourished
with the promise of a happier life.
Only then, I wish this was a poem.
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