The Itch of Permanent
by anxiousmove
· 02/05/2026
Published 02/05/2026 12:41
I woke up with black flakes on the pillowcase,
small, dark wings that used to be a part of me.
I reached down to touch the sore, red space
on my wrist where the star is supposed to be
but it’s mostly just a scab now, a thick
and weeping map of a night I thought
I was being brave. The needle’s quick
and rhythmic sting was a bargain I bought
to feel something different. Now it just burns.
The skin is raised, angry at the ink
that’s trying to settle. Every time it turns
against my sleeve, I have to stop and think
about how long 'forever' actually stays.
It’s peeling off in strips like a dead moth.
I’m wearing my regret in itchy, blurry ways,
trapped beneath the surface of the cloth.