child,
the scars you carry
never quite reach your eyes
or smile.
they don’t give edge to your laughter
or bitterness to your voice
they are a reminder of life
the memory of pain
and you wear them well
I’m sorry I asked for a pristine canvas.
I’d rather have you.
It’s official; I’ll be heading to Europe in late October, hitting six countries in fifteen days.
On the one hand, I’ll get to experience several cultures and hit the highlights at each location; on the other hand, two days in Paris is no way to enjoy the place.
Of course, if I fall in love with one particular country, I can always return.
If there is anyone who lives in (or near) London, Bruges, Amsterdam, Paris, Innerlaken, or Rome, who would like to meet up for drinks while I’m over there, just let me know (I’ll be staying at the Four Seasons King George while in Paris, and they must have a kick ass bar there).
Fair, the words drafted to hold you down.
Cruel, the sentiment that keeps you there.
I laid two knives beside her hip as she rested on her stomach. Drawing back the hair from her neck, I ran my fingertip along her skin, an invisible line that curved past her shoulder blade and down the right side of her body.
I traced the line again. And again.
This would be the first.
With the sharp edge of the first knife, I drew a fine line of white that stretched several inches from her neck to her shoulder. The last inch drew tiny beeds of blood. I placed the knife at the top of the line and leaned into the edge so that the tip pressed into the groove of the first impression. I took my time, letting the weight of the knife do the work until tiny drops of crimson dotted the length of the line.
It was a start.
I wish I had not broken you into so many pieces. I keep finding parts of you in the strangest of places.
Slivers of you embedded under my fingertips. Long capricious coils of hair left upon my pillow. Drops of blood that stained my wrists and rusty freckles left in the passage of sanguine lips.