Black and blue marks
On my arm—
Ink, of course. What else?
Words, thoughts, feelings, fears
Written, smudged, then erased.
Leftover streaks,
They wash away
With a smidge of soap and water.
And yet…
I can’t help but remember
When I wrote
With mechanical pencils
And staple bullets
Instead of ballpoint pens
And gel ones.
When I watched the ink,
A gorgeous shade of rubies,
Trickle
Down to my wrist
Like a rivulet of lava.
Now, the fire has long faded
Leaving white ashes
That won’t come off