I used to know a boy with a rose blooming across his chest
and the scars from its thorns scraped across his knuckles.
He's the kind of boy who always laughs with his whole heart,
he never just chuckles
Roses are his mother's favourite flower.
And though he doesn't believe in a heaven
just in case she looks down he wants her to see the she's still a part of his story
A story he can't help but write in his father's handwriting
When I meet this boy he is taping a needleful of black ink
and smiling like he swallowed my butterflies
but I don't mind,
they were his in the first place
He tells me he is an artist and asks if I want to be a canvas,
I don't know much about saying no yet so I offer him my left arm
because the right one's the one I write with and I'm not sure his ink is the right one to write with
but veins, veins don't work that way
the ink that goes in my shoulder flows through my heart and out my pen
and I end up here telling you a black ink story.
He draws a perfect heart on my shoulder,
I don't wonder why he can draw perfect hearts,
Instead I let him write his name inside
and I decide to wear tank tops.
I forget artists like to sign their artwork,
so I think he wants me to be a sailor and I buy a boat.
But before I leave I take his hands and
I write my name across his palms
"This way they'll read me in your future" I say
Then I go sailing.
I travel across the world, swim in every ocean, meet every fish
But no matter how many salt water showers I take
No matter what colour the sun makes my skin
No matter how many Sirens I follow
His heart still beats coal black on my shoulder
1
So I decide to sail back to him.
I great him with open arms and he greets me with open palms.
Blank open palms.
My name has been rubbed away by the way her hands tuck perfectly into his on hot summer nights when everyone else has let go
I turn his hands over and see pieces of her where his father's scars are healing.
So I buy a long-sleeved shirt and I go sailing.
2
When I reach the shore
I great him with open arms and he greets me with open palms.
Blank open palms.
Desperately I take his hands and run my fingers across where my name should be
Concealer that matches another girls skin clings to my fingertips
My name peaks through the make-up
and I smile, I am still written in his scars
3
When I finally see him
I great him with open arms and he greets me with open palms
Open palms that call me home.
Written for spoken word.