My person is the person of others, personified evil for you and the saline taste of life’s water for me. Erasing the words your voice has etched in my skin is not to my desire. Rather I would have your lips on mine, and your greedy claws tracing the symbols of oblivion I carry.
For all I have done and tried there is no reason to resound in silence. Not all the actions have their cause, not all the hopeful have their glory. You and I, we have a history of black and blue and red. Colors for one, markings on another, and I can only follow the path they trace on my soul.
Haven’t we spoken, spoken so often about the life we led, your whispering in my ear to be the sound of a lover, rather than the cawing of death in my porch. I can’t count anymore, but I still reason, the many, many times you held me over the ravine of doom and asked me to trust you.
To trust is to expose, I was your work of art, permanent on exhibition in the gallery of honor. To have the thousand eyes pry on my bare flesh and the invisible hands of fate caress my illicit curves. Reach out for me and break the brittle bones of weakness. I was your creation, formed by the kneading of your world.
Not on the inside, but on the outside I wish to carry the sins. Permanent marker scars and frozen orbs will portray the landscape you shaped in me. Your silence is the loudest thing I’ve heard. Ire and poise for a cent and three letters worth of opposition, and in your eyes I grew like a plant in sunshine. In your eyes I exist, your touch to be the fertile ground in which I firmly planted my roots.
Even the soil withered in grief for you.