suffocation, coming and going and comingand going and comingandgoing andcomingandgoing, both teaching me the dangers of absoluteness. My skin has rejected your images. My blood is reclaiming them, making room for my mural. But you’re still there in the gesso and outline — your smile, your stubbornness, your build. I can still see those fading imprints you placed in me; I see them begging for a savior in my bathroom mirror, tightening their constraints as they grapple at anything that will give them attention or share the burden. I cannot carry your voice until you finally decide you feel heard. Tattoos are not accidents. But I love you. I am you. I am not. The animosity, like ink, must dissolve.
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