Obsessing over the vast continent
of my ever changing skin.
It pins me down like weighted cloth,
the heavy scent of decay takes me
back to places I’ve been before.
My hair primed to promiscuous pink,
I fought for my right to be invincible.
My breasts bathed in gold glitter,
running through town throwing
flippant colours of youth in vacant faces.
As casual commitments were cashed in,
I constructed interchangeable masks.
Heavy black eyeliner streaked across my disguise,
painting false promises in honour
of the transience of time.
Echoes of sinister shadows haunt me,
ghosts caught in strobe light.
Guarding my small bucket of scars I sit
content on the shelf up high where
grasping fingers cannot grab me.
Memories like flash photography force
marks on my skin to spill my story.
Map-readers eyes scan purple valleys,
bruised by birth. Fingers trace indigo brandings,
tattoos declaring tribalism once striven for.
The rise and fall of my womb stretching
left me observing the pummelled pillows
on my chest.
Gold glitter replaced with small pink lines
tracking the ticking clock.
Comfortable under my weighted cloth
absorbing alcoholic medication.
A brazen examination of my exposed flesh
leaves me bathing in
burgundy glasses full of loosened tongues.
Trailing the threads of rebel tales,
foreplay to carry on the oral tradition.
Waiting to unravel into obliging hands,
hopelessly taunting passing scribes
as the seams of my stories unwind.