Of All The Stories I've Written, I Share With You, Stranger, These Few

Teasing Her

She hated the way
the sink stared back at her,
its flawlessly plain white ceramic
taunting her marbled and cracked skin.
She could swear it was laughing at her.
Teasing her.

She looked down at her arms,
colored flowers bloomed
from the tips of her friend's Sharpie markers.
They were beautiful, she had to admit,
intricate filigree connecting each scar
with a vine or a petal.

The next morning she laid in bed,
staring at the flower garden on her skin.
She wished she could keep the flowers on her forever,
hiding what she could not bear to see.

But Sharpie washes off of skin,
and as thin as skin is, it is not paper.

And no matter how long she stared at her mirror,
her reflection would only smile if she smiled first.

And no matter how crazy or insane
she thought she was,
that porcelain with the scarless, ceramic skin
was not laughing at her,
and most definitely not teasing her.