“Where are these from?” She asks, staring at the collections of deep purples and light greens scattered along my legs.
I want to tell her: I do not know where they initially came from- they come and go as they please. They must be some sort of sign appearing on my skin as markers that I am paying for whatever wrongs I have done. They make themselves at home on my fair skin and I welcome their presence, for I cannot stand to look at the unscathed entirety of my legs when they are gone; it brings a sense of emptiness into my otherwise barren chest. They have become a part of who I am; woven themselves between the fabric of my being and etched their celestial words into my aching bones.
I look at her with tired eyes and reply. “They are forgotten galaxies. Nothing more, nothing less.”
- excerpt from a story i’ll never write // the things i wish to tell you
g.j
