The Itch of Permanent

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.