You stretch your fingers, white across my skin. Happiness, pain, networks of thin branches.

You remind me with jagged lines what life has brought. Edged, numb in the aftermath of pain. You allow me that small reprieve, that shield.

I used to hide them. Because at one point in my life, I took the wrong class, and learned the wrong material. I had to unlearn it with your eternal patience, your guidance. Never did you let me take a step back.

Now they stand, proud against my skin. My marks. Classes, passed with all the colours blended into a white, stark in contrast with my skin.

28 thoughts on “Time

  1. I enjoyed this piece, and believe with a bit of re-formatting it could be transformed into an excellent poem. I’d like to include it in a collection of poems from writers I enjoy that I’ve begun compiling for an anthology. If you are open to considering the idea, please contact me at russtowne@yahoo.com.
    Thank you!


  2. We all earn our stripes, one way or another. We’re all making and collecting memories, etched into our skin like ink on paper telling our stories, unique and poignant.


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