I skim my finger down your back, reading you like braille. I find the scars and I begin to read the stories again. A candelabra you once fell against. A rusty nail that pierced your skin. Down to your knee, a half moon from a gardening tool. Above that, the recent scar from an axe you stumbled on at work, laid like a lie in your flesh. And your knuckles, a fight in a nightclub, the imprint of another man’s tooth embedded in you along with his anger.
“I don’t have any scars” I say.
“Only mental ones,” you reply
And you pull a silly face.
I have read your body again. I have traced the places where your past has left footprints in your skin. One day, when you are ready, I will let you read mine.
Samantha Priestley, reader and writer of books, plays, stories and stuff. Find her on Instagram at @sampriestleybooks
“I don’t have any scars” I say.
“Only mental ones,” you reply
And you pull a silly face.
I have read your body again. I have traced the places where your past has left footprints in your skin. One day, when you are ready, I will let you read mine.
Samantha Priestley, reader and writer of books, plays, stories and stuff. Find her on Instagram at @sampriestleybooks
Oh wow!
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