Evanescent Adolescent

When I was 15 I wrote on my walls,

I drew on the windowsill,

I told myself it was poetic,

that if I wrote in Sharpie my words would last forever,

that adolescence would linger longer than the deep circles around my wrist, engraved on 

my strawberry-scented skin from hair ties I kept on my wrist too long, ones that

would break in my hair but I tied back together, tighter, and tighter,

The circles would be gone by the next morning.

When I was 17 I realized poetic wasn't a good enough label to justify my actions.

You see, I had been in the process of folding myself back together when you told me you had feelings for me,

I started with my palms.

I nudged my skin back towards its outlines,

I rubbed pillows over the spots where the zipper ripped too quickly,

when I couldn't shed another layer of myself fast enough,

You'd think I was held together by threads,

I know I'm only propped up by cables in my backbone, 

but I bet you believe in souls.

And if I believe you, my soul has shards.

I want to run my fingers through them,

stain the ones you find beautiful with India blue dye,

so that when you look for me in my calves,

the crook beneath my knee,

the lines on the side of my ankle,

the words I write for you, always for you, 

the softest places my palms haven't tainted yet,

it will be easier for you to find what you're looking for.