Number-one bestselling author
morning with words
etched into my
skin. I tried to
read them in
mirror, but the
writing was backwards.
My friends noticed
the words and
asked why I
had tattooed myself
with just a
fraction of a
sentence. I woke
the next morning
to find the
words had doubled
on my skin,
snaking down the
inside of my
arm. I went
to the doctors
and they asked
why I had
marked myself with
words. They didn’t
understand when I
told them the
words had just
appeared there on
their own. They
sent me home
with a mild
sedative. When I
woke on the
third morning, I
found that both
my arms were
now covered in
looping black words.
I tried to
read them, attempted
to make sense
of what they
said, but I
could not see
all of the
words. Looking in
the mirror, I
saw they had
started to appear
along the back
of my neck.
My mother was
the one who
explained it to
me. She read
the words, running
her fingers along
some of them,
turning my arms
in order to
read others. She
looked at me.
“Don’t you recognize this?”
I shook my head
no. I shrugged.
“I haven’t been able to see all of them to read them. What does it say?”
“You should know. You wrote them.”
I was shocked.
“What do you mean?”
She pointed to
the words that
ran along the
inside of my
arm, then ran
her fingers along.
“As the cards flew from my grasp, I knew I had made the right decision. I was the Broken Man no longer.”
She paused for
breath, and to
point to another
set of words.
“And this here? These say: I had let a piece of my past go and looked forward to what the future would bring.”
I shook my head,
not knowing what
to say. My
mother took my
hands and held
them in hers.
“Your life is a living poem. A wonderful, exciting, awesome living poem.”
I wondered at
her words, at
what they meant.
What the words
on my skin
meant. She could
see my confusion.
“You put so much of yourself in your words, it is only natural that they will mark you even as you mark the page. Do not be afraid of them.”
“How do I get the words out of my skin?”
She looked at
me with a
half smile and
that wise look
she got in
her eyes, deep
and somehow comforting.
“Write. More words will come and you will always be marked by them, but you are a living poem. It has always been this way.”
I nodded and
pulled a piece
of paper towards
me. I put my
hand down on
the paper and
watched as the words
on my skin
began to slip
and slide off
of it. I
looked at the
page to see
what they had
to say.