Sheridan

Threads

On her arms

and legs

White lines

sketched on copper skin.

A gorgeous canvas.

She tells me it’s stunning

The way sangria

looks on her skin

The way it slides

The way to shines

She speaks with a far off look

in her sparkling eyes

A smile twisting her face.

The dark mountains

fascinate her

Remnants of an earthquake

she created

With a fork,

her nails,

Anything she could

paint them with.

A perverse artist.

I wish to understand her skill.

Stroking a cut on my forearm,

I struggle to see

the beauty in the

rusty streak

But I’m smothered by the fear

that one day

She’ll fall too deeply

And become imbedded

in her own creation.