[Scar]

“Bonnie Blue Mark”

she sang the blues
complex melodies tatted along a patch perusing the back movement of her neck.
Afternoon. Perhaps a glass or two.
It was a habit. Soon she’d hit the sack for two or some hours of sex.
Then Showered and dress.
They’d leave as she stares at the nothing in between.
Purple pigments painted her jaws as she careened stretched -
out on silk linen. Swimming in velvet dreams. She’d powder her chest and esteem.
The mirror…

An image. Perhaps sixteen years at best
skipping stones behind the house on Neponset as uncle Harold’s hand cupped the bows of her breast..

Nonetheless, Bruises are bad for business. Showered and dressed,
She hopscotched across the avenue as the hours reset.
The Cheshire moon grinning, she wandered the town for a sense...
The sound, existential musing; a roundabout way of downing a sense of....what?
Respect, maybe?
So she drowns in the scents.
Empty bottle. It was gone. Nothing left. Autumn apple intimacy, vanishing at the drop of the seizing.
Left with nothing but love notes and tatted bodies used to sing the blues til she’s dead.