The Last Page

The blank canvas, etched in words.

A tan current rippling into sierra skin,

The source of all the other lines.

The ebb and flow of a quiet disorder

Of pushing plates away during the day

And scarfing them down at night

Left its mark deep in my skin.

No removing them so new lines,

Deep and angry, interrupt them.

Slicing them away never worked

So they're covered by dark ink,

Painful curves and dark lines

Concealing pain with something

Worth loving for my skin clearly isnt.

Ghosting of the pain still visible

Further down the page but covered

By something dark and opaque.

The feathering of scars in thighs

So easily forgotten as long as no one

Gets to close or touches a nerve,

So easily hidden as long as no one

Looks to close or asks questions.

These scars stay hidden until the end,

When there is no longer anything

To hide behind or any words to lie.

Once the last page is ripped out

And it is just the bones and the ghost

Of every harsh word and bad thought,

What happens then?