Shoshana Epstein
Pity or lust?
The three dark lines have long blended into the pale undertones, only visible to my scrutinizing gaze.
I yearn for the angry marks on my thighs to show.
If they were to show, perhaps to serve as a reminder, maybe I wouldn’t want to paint using myself as a fucked up canvas.
Extremities unravel like ribbons and I awake in a cold sweat. It itches but I dare not scratch.
Life imitates life
More. I need more. Like many animals in nature; I dance in a flurry of colors and roll onto my back to lure in.
Let me pierce your skin and inject my venom, let my poison flow through your veins and heal what has hurt you in the past.
Hold me close, let my tears soak your collarbone and my trembling form remind you of the fragility of the world.
Soothe me and find peace within yourself; let me be a balm to your red ledger. I am poison; sweet and intoxicating and oh so gentle. The initial sting when you touch me soon fades to a fuzzy warmth.
Oh no
I ruined it.
Porcelain, cracked and bleeding.
The disappointment is a smothering embrace of warmth; the sting has been missed. I’ve defaced the temple, put up caution tape.
I want what I have gotten, but how could someone want to eat off of a cracked plate?
CLAMOR 