10/30

The high-boned
taut-toned
moody ink eyes beauty
is named not-Sofie.

What she really wants
is silence,
or an opening
to musing awhile
on the difference between
scars and tattoos. Searching
for how they trace
along miles and miles
of ether.

Like a pleat in cloth
not-Sofie studies
the defects of structure under
fluorescent lights. Mostly
it is her arm bone. The inner
rotation of that spiral
where
her wrist always cracks.

Fatigued and showing
signs of ruin, of wreckage,
ED has become her best
friend.  In rain checks
and in tense mornings
it is only kind of
difficult to get up
today.

This will never be
nothing new. Without an
image in her soul
the rest
is gibberish. Stung with a warm
injection of tears, all
I could do was stare
at the scars
on not-Sofies arm.

-sonja lynn mata