Scars mark my skin all over like waves of August heat… from scraped knees to razors dragged into the meat; teeth sallow from the nicotine, heart wary from the ache of latent hate. I lean with the creak of floor boards, pliable to the derecho winds that rip roofs from homes and ease from wills. I ache with the constant tick that reminds me and plagues me of mistakes decades old.
I want to be that girl that blooms in the barroom smoke with crystal eyes with will of fervor shining like pearlescent wings of some detested pest that thrives in separate airs.
but I am neither. I am on fire–letting my skin be licked by flames, letting my skin melt and peel like petals. My lips are velvet, rubbed over by decay–crushed scarlet from the flush of someone else but dried up. Wasted.
I’ll paint myself with the colors of someone famous and strong. I’ll sidle their spine through my flesh and stand tall with their strength. I will prop my arms strong with the proposition that I’m all I need. I can force feed myself disappointment. I need no men to help me with that.