stories, printed on skin.
memories, pricked onto flesh with a needle and ink.
forever on my body, printed for eternity.
they go from my fingertips, to my wrist, over my arm, till my shoulder.
a sleeve of ink,
of colours, patterns, symbols, pictures, letters, numbers.
to cover up my scars, or my identity?
to cover up who i am and to pretend,
to be someone, i'm not?
or just to keep this with me.
to carry this further and farther.
until deep in my grave.
over my veins they go, elegantly they tell a story i can't.
some think they're just ugly.
but to me, they tell people something i'm to afraid to say out loud.
they tell the past that i'd rather forget, yet still have with me.
on my skin, why you might ask.
because remembering the bad times will make you appreciate the good times even more.
permanently they sit on my skin, close to me.
and every time i open my eyes.
i see the blue and black.
and i know that life sometimes gets better.