prose poetry and fiction


maybe the blue marks upon his body were not scars but birthmarks,
he could have been born with them,
they looked like they had been carved deep into him by a knife,
and he was afraid because if he tried to scratch at them, they bled and stung and burned,
but the pain made him think they might be healing,
so he waited for a sign,
until one day he felt a faint warmth upon the back of his neck and knew the mark was moving across the skin,
and just before it reached his shoulder he stopped it dead and took his hands away.