In a nascent desert, I stamp new oaths over old templates. The ink is the blood of practice and repetition. The crimson seal is congealed regret.
The breeze sings of sand as I tattoo new and colorful lines over old scars. The first outlines are smeared from the sweat of hundreds of fleshtone teardrops.
The work makes my spine ache. I lament my loss even as I pulverize old wounds into a new, but similar, design.
9:52 p.m. - 2015-07-09
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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