When young, we wrote our stories on
our bodies, ink and paint and felt-tip pens
We scrawled our life in scribbles.
We shoved them deep with needles,
made holes to fill with glass and metal.
Our new narration.
Created tales to show each other.
But all we did was spread
the lies out. Fight
against the signs of time, we scrawl
in wounds and scars and wrinkles fill with blood.
We race to make a story
before our hair falls out, our skin
goes limp and grey.
We waste away.