Ink and Marrow

In the fluorescent glare of the waiting room

my skin looks like paper that's been folded too much.

I trace the bird on my forearm, the one I bought

with a hundred bucks and a surge of bad blood.

The wings have softened into a blue-grey smudge,

bleeding out of the lines until the beak is gone.

It looks less like a flight and more like a bruise

that refused to heal when the season changed.

I used to think the ink was a permanent anchor,

but even the needles can't stop the slow drift.

We’re both sagging now, the bird and the bone,

just trying to stay recognizable in the light.