BRoken WOrd

📝

He was a scribe

His skin paper, spliced delicately with the swift twist of the razor

He told tales on his skin, blood an offering to any God that would here his angst

I remember the first times I traced his arms

The raised scars spelling out the word Ana

The girl who introduced him to heroin
Who filled him with insecurity
Left to fester inside him
Only for the claws of Gillette
To dig out

I bent, kissing each marred limb
Trying to heal his epidermis
When the real pain was deeply embedded,
Muscle memory

His neck and back was a road map of burns and crisscrossing scars, modernized scarification

A reminder of the girl that got away
The overdoses that didn't take his life

My man is a mural
He draws his life story on his skin
Flaunting his flaws
Teaching the world
That pain can utilized
It can be beaten, so that it doesn't destroy you in its strong grip

But the internal struggle will always bubble to the surface
Be a brand on your heart
A fresh blade
A hot iron
A safety been dotting against a smooth wrist
A kiss from a deceitful woman
Searching for a heart to call her own to start rigor mortis as he begged for his life
A slice, a cut
The only medicine his body ever needed
To feel whole