Kissing in the Street

An example of some street art in Angoulême, the 'comic' city in South West France

Scratched

I glide up from the tip of a finger. Slashing my way through the skin. Over hand and under wrist; inside,
On top and across.
As the elbow creases upwards, I shoot through the inside with ease.
Drinking up, along the way.
Over a hill, under a crease
I darken the red slightly, and slowly blacken down the bend.
The depth of someone’s pain is within my reach.
The shoulder is slim ground, however negotiable. I paint in a little orange. A framed picture in the making.
The neck is soothing; the chest is a dream, as the sweat trembles off; I swim this delightful ground. Meandering over the ribs, slicing down around the breast, towards silk like territory. The flatness of the stomach is merely a canvas.
You are my territory, but I’m in your control.
Momentarily causing pain, providing a future for confidence.
My journey comes to a temporary close.
For the time being, life has no place for me.
The imminent return is a certainty. I power the addiction well.
Sometime later, I strike again. Unrepentantly.
The world with no boundaries. The world without reason. The world with relentless lapses of understanding; is my world.
An ankle is my victim now, a foot in a state of sadness.
A mind inside confusion; enticing my gleam sharpness.
Sparkling and shining, I troop up the inside of what was once a smooth leg.
Down, then up again.
Up then down again.
Erratically crossing my way down.
Crossing.
Slashing.
Hurting.
A satisfaction accomplished, a smile is my reward.
The tears are never far away. For this short time, I'll keep what I can. I shall hold happiness close, and know it will be mine again. A lifetime warranty. Escape is only just a dream. I shall silently wait, in eager anticipation.
Rid me if you can.
Help me if you can.
I could go away if you try hard enough.

Put me down, blunt me out. Free yourself.
I’m worn out. I’m stained. I’ve lost the sparkle.