My Arms

Something I wrote a few years ago, sent out to a handful of magazines, and forgot about. Recently it was published in The Stray Branch, which reminded me I'd written the thing in the first place.

My arms are a map

of history -

an atlas of me -

and my journeys through the sunless lands

of bereavement

and bewilderment:

historical stars

a constellation of scars.

 

The girl I am being introduced to points

and touches my arm and asks me

“What did you use?”

I tell her

and

she smiles and says something about fun.

 

And once again

a little piece of me shrinks

and withers, and longs

to retreat to the stifling

shelter of long,

long

thick black sleeves.

Reviews

[NoneOfYourBusiness akaK..]

they are most noticable under neon~ striations of pain . . . . yes . . . . a topography of each of us to whom crying was either impossible or not enough to disgorge the thorns~

[Sweet Emotions]

I love the first lines, "My arms are a map of history..." Great comparison.

[Aidz]

An interesting write indeed and draws the emotion through the read

[Robin]

so many emotions run through this piece , personal thoughts of how others percieve , how others can imagine , even glamourize , but never really know