the same words, over and over,
are etched onto and into my skin.
pressed together, they are little threads,
they are the stitches along the bottom of my feet,
along the length of my back, the insides of my legs.
i have run out of room. there is no new place,
there is no part of me that is not marked
by some form of you.
without quite knowing they are there,
without being aware of them,
the pictures and words creep like vines
around my legs and up my back.
they are woven
into my plaited hair.
yet quite without thinking,
in those points of light between night and day,
i have spent more and more time searching for a part of myself
that has not been marked
by your name, for a snatch of skin
still untouched, that i might dream of wasting