likeawritingdesk:

i once paid a man to carve a flower of
good fortune into my arm despite my lack
of luck. he told me i had thin blood each
time he dug the colours deeper into my skin
and the smell of anemia hit the floor like a 
bomb going off; i left the parlour with the taste
of pennies in my mouth

so now i’ve planted gardens on my radius and
ulna and let them line my humerus so i can’t 
forget to water them and no one can tear them
up from the soft soil of my skin

every so often people will comment on my 
arms and tell me they are beautiful so i say 
‘thank you’ but i didn’t do anything myself and 
they pry and ask ‘why,’ and i can’t describe the
feeling of never being told by anyone that i was
beautiful growing up

i feel my stomach drop to my knees when i see
the news reports and the body counts. i feel like
shit when i cry about frivolous things like how you
told me once that venice is sinking or how you
can’t fall in love with me

i go to the racetrack once and a while and watch
the horses run like we used to and sometimes i place
a bet but i never win because that would be too easy,

wouldn’t it

i am either going to dye my hair or pierce my face.