hand tattooes

They might be having a baby.
That’s what they said, at least.
I drove home from work,
remembering how just last week
it would have been dark by now.
The sunlight felt like a beautiful stranger in my hometown.
I didn’t know what to make of it.

‘We were worried about you,’
meek and mild,
an adult straight out of the womb.
Apparently I have grown since our first handshake,
trying to leave behind the frame I held when
all of my screams, all of my colors,
came out grey, as whispers.

We were all pastel once,
delicate, bursting out of our own ribcages,
unaware of how much,
simply how much,
there was, and would be.
We doodled on each others arms in watercolors,
dripping over our faces and hands,
tattooing importance onto ourselves
to grow into
that we would not let the world ignore.
No longer grey, not meek, not mild,
but prisms held up to the sun,
covering the walls around us
in us.
Simply us, loudly us, brilliantly us.

Last night was years later.
I dreamed of young boy, fresh,
but colorful already.
I dreamed that I was grey again.
I awoke, flustered, to find blue and green and purple
seeping through my clothing
onto the bedsheets.
I scraped all it together
and desperately slathered it back on
with my fingertips.

I am driving home from work,
and the sky is the stained glass window of a chapel,
with heaven casting its beams through.
In this very moment,
I am living a million befores
and a million afters
all at once.
I don’t know what to make of the sunlight.
It is beautiful, and strange.

—  G.S.


Feyre Cursebreaker 
Protector of the Rainbow
Huntress with an artist’s soul

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