The Literature of Skin

I think our life is a book
page turner, a blank one, each time
we let others write their stories of us
no filters, no censorship

Just blank pages
ready to be written on
We stain them with ink from the fountain pen
with vampiric blood from the night before
with the love of those carefully crafted kisses
and with the tears for those we left behind

Me, nostalgic and silent
like so many others
insist on revisiting old chapters
past drama, long lost heartbreak
for we have them bookmarked
in alphabetical order

And yet, there's a blank page
like an empty coffee shop
and all the while, there's someone willing to add a footnote
a paragraph or a full chapter
some people are that way
they come and they want all or nothing
and when you least expect it
there's already half a page
but we, we weren't looking
we were too busy trying to proofread previous stories
old romances failed
blaming the flaws in ourselves
trying to find our mistakes
our self sabotage
our lack of love
owning the guilt of our misery
in an empty coffee shop
adding desperate footnotes
as we think of slashing our wrists
with the edge of a fountain pen
washing our skin to clean the sinful vampiric blood
... from the night before
remembering carefully crafted kisses
drowning in tears for those who left us behind
like a footnote
like a bookmark
and in alphabetical order