Scrapbook

Artwork by Tara Khoo

 

It’s difficult for me to understand you now—

to comprehend the pain you inflict 

while my heart breaks at the thought of you knowing.

I don’t know if I can confess the distress you caused,

through exhausted breaths and broken sentences, 

choked up tears, legs shaking in restlessness. 

I feared your reaction, 

remained mindless in a state of regression.

I am pleased to state that; 

I am no longer desperate for your attention. 

 

I see myself burned into your skin.

My words tattooed along your collarbone. 

The ink is fresh; your red, raw skin crusts, 

outlining the words you call beautiful. 

 

You referred to each mere utterance as a symphony, 

my skin worthy as an offering to the gods, 

my being as your property.

 

You are reminded of me each time you look in the mirror. 

But I don’t follow you, 

I don’t haunt you. 

I surrendered at your will— 

with reminders of your pain, 

Insistence that you are a poor soul 

detained by your choices. 

 

You came to me crying, 

your shoulder aching, 

drops of blood slipping from the gash that adorned it. 

Voice breaking, you pleaded for me to 

treat it, cover it, 

make your problems go unseen and only reveal them to me. 

Make it look natural, make it seamless. 

 

A hand gripped my thigh, 

Holding it still as 

you used a dull knife to slice through my flesh. 

It may not have been a perfect colour match 

but you insisted

that this was the gauze your throbbing shoulder needed. 

 

I used my hair as thread, 

sewing patches of my skin over your wounds. 

 

Not long after, 

you came to me for more salvation, with breathy desperation, 

another abrasion, 

self inflicted. 

My thigh still untreated, yet you implored, 

You beg for more. 

Your warm tears fell on my thumb as I stroked your cheek while you buried your face into my palm. 

 

I cut a thin layer from my arm 

used the blood as glue. 

I scrapbooked pieces of me onto you while your tears continued to fall as 

you demanded something more secure. 

My scalp burned a tense pull, 

before my fingers pinched the needle, 

Stitching to your satisfaction.

 

You walk around with my skin coating yours.

You are a mannequin presented to each person you meet, 

Donning a battle jacket of my agony and your ambition. 

 

Still, perhaps, I keep us going. 

Our love permeates through the pain, 

While clenching fists, 

My arms fold over my chest. 

It’s sickening, 

The way I protect myself from you 

while dancing in forceful vulnerability. 

 

Dust collects on my bones, 

Infecting the muscles exposed. 

 

With each step forward,

I fear your vituperative commands—

the stretching of my skin, 

further exposing my wounds. 

And as you press your thumb 

into my bloody flesh, 

You ask, 

“Who did this to you?”