there are white lines
on the skin of my forearms
the involuntary tattoos
of her fingernails and once
a chef’s knife
those days where my mind
wants to trick me
into thinking it wasn’t so bad
I look at them
Someday I will sit
and have ink pierced into my skin
an easily visible design
that is about joy and not anguish
and I will never
have a tattoo placed as cover
over the ones I dare not forget
the reminders I survived
Slut of the Cloth 
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