Pieces Of Me

I read through my pieces as my fingers hover over my inked skin. With each piece I am taken back to the moment I was writing it. I remember where I was sitting, what I was feeling and my inspiration. My hand rests on my left shoulder; raised skin busies my fingertips. It is not the memory of the day that the ink stained my skin with my favourite piece of artwork that makes me pause, it is the reminder I carry with me daily of what the piece represents.

You cannot see her face but you can see that she is lost. You cannot see her nakedness, but you can tell that she is stripped. You cannot see her hands, but you know that they are empty. She bears the burden of time and as she loses herself in the clock, she becomes the question: When?

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