Maybe he scribbles on his arms because mummy and daddy are covered in scribble. Maybe he does it because it tickles as the tips run along his soft, bare skin. Maybe, just maybe, he does it because he keeps being told to draw on paper, and paper is just a flat, boring surface that doesn’t tickle and doesn’t look like mummy and daddy. Either way, it’s a step up from drawing on all the walls.
I can think of far worse things to trouble myself over.
She moved paint around the canvas the way a toddler moves spaghetti around it’s cheekbones; instinctively sloppy. She flicked matches as she danced, lighting small fires under the feet of others; burning up the beats. She performed on street corners, to the applause of none. She wrote, perhaps to her own self-destruction.
She scratched at the sting on her shoulder, the gnawing at her neck, it inched itself closer to her ear lobe as she swatted it away flippantly with the back of her hand. It tried again: landing on her clavicle, sliding down her cleavage trying to seep through the skin and fast track to the heart. She dusted off the tickle with the tips of her fingers and rolling eyes.
Thank you once again to Rendezvous at Dayboro for the ongoing support of my writing. Seeing my words on your wall, being read by your beautiful customers and encased in the original artwork of your resident and ridiculously talented artist; it brings light to my existence. Thank you.