See how easily a pen

Can glide over my skin

I long to trace every visible vein

Until I create winding paths to my heart.

I'd trace my scars too;

The hole in my knee,

The miniature gash in my palm,

The chickenpox indents from my youth,

Perhaps even my silver and/or purple stretch marks — a reminder of my teens

To name a few

To become a living canvas —

Now that's my dream.

Yet I'd want the ink to be alterable,

To erase and re-design me

Whenever I change my whims

I'd only let my lovers see my ink story;

Only small sections until I could be sure.

I have never been sure of love, though;

(How can anyone be sure affections are returned?)

I'm no artist;

But these words I lay down

Are my pain;

These plots are the designs

And my characters are my world.

A great many things to reflect in one story