My skin is lined with erasure-marks. Mottled white scars I created to scrub out my tattoos. Confessed loyalty laid by an ink-lined tongue.
I pick at my abrasions with frustrated fingernails. The blood that weeps at my worries is six times too thin. It blisters like poison oak. I bandage my forearms with dusty words from torn manuscripts.
No amount of scabbing will exhume my desire.
I cannot cleanse deeproot guilt. There is no substitute for bedroom absolution.
9:45 p.m. - 2015-04-30
Recent entries:
Tossi Propter - 2018-07-02
Summerscorch - 2018-07-02
Heartdesert - 2018-06-25
Elliptical - 2018-06-25
Back and Callback - 2018-06-18
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