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“We’re fools whether we dance or not, so we might as well dance.”[my art blog dedicated to everyday muses]
I’m that scab that won’t heal, the spot dug deeper then gouged out, this million lines of red like a net of highways and rivers converging and splitting and crash into each other again. I’m that peeling raw skin on your lower lips, teeth meeting over me peeling peeling back all pink and stinging. Peeling the skin round your nails and round your nailbeds, hang nails and loose skin and more little lines of red. A starburst of red pinpricks fading to brown in the crook of your elbows, behind your knees. A million little obsessions in each pore and pit and abscess. A million little regrets with each peeling back of a clot. A million tiny scars and marks to small for the eyes to see.