There, below the skin, sleep keloid scars. They run across the insides of my hands, on the quiet side of each palm.
Death lies underneath the smooth shiny witness. The embryonic bones of brush strokes and pencil marks that miscarried. The imprint of a pen and the touch type calluses never made.
I pull pull at the skin. Thirsty and dry I see overworked tools that bled for a life. Lines guide my nails. Incisions follow. I wonder what lies beneath the scar tissue.
Maybe brush, pen and keyboard will conceive something from a dusty blueprint. And maybe I won’t find keloid scars. Maybe they’ve only ever been coarse scabs that need to be picked awake
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