Friday, December 4, 2009

Skin Art

Her skin was a canvas.

The girls expressed themselves in ink and needles,
immortalising beauty onto her,
in sharp aesthetic lines and sexy curving blackness,
in watercolour illusions,
they used her as a conduit for their electricity and
she had grown accustomed to being violated
and transforming into art after hours of pleasuring pain.

She sleeps,
her nightmares seeping into silence.
She wakes and another tattoo emerges,
fairy wings resting across her shoulder blades,
a rosary circling her ankle,
prose poetry creeping up her elbows.

She cannot come to terms with permanence,
absolute untainted faith and undying love.
Time was an unseen ghost haunting her relationships,
causing fight after fight,
and he doesn't understand.

So she allows the other girls to claim her largest organ,
then giving away her heart to a boy who never wants to grow up and dictate its beats as he should.
Give her a bucket to kick and
she'll dance life away,
her goodbyes in the rhythm and proof of her existence
in the hands of those trigger-happy girls,
and the eyes of that forever fighting, unhappy boy.