the beginning began as all beginnings do.
slow. slow like the gradual roar
of a whitecap, with its pigeon blue body.
the first time, my skin was beautiful.
my wrist, like a pale, smooth sheet of gossamer.
ready to be awakened and bled.
I hold my skin close like a mother holds her child.
for I cannot bear for them to see.
the rigidity of it now, the toll of age.
the patterns that time, ticking,
left upon my forearms.