she cuts a line along her arm each day,
the same two thoughts upon her skin journal,
in one clean line, a thin writing to say
at once that art is long but not floral.
such truth, a place holder for tomorrow,
these chevrons of yesterday's blinding breaks,
today's record of resilient sorrow
is silent and constant through steady wakes
of the same old woe she recognizes
and cannot escape---what else can she do?
her heart quickens to touch the falls and rises
by these marks of scar---her clean growth rings tattoo
texturizes the main complaints to form
a lurid Braille reading of her life's storm.