Ink

The butterfly tattoo sits quietly on my ankle
Fine purple and black lines
The one place on our skin which is not scorched
Or scarred
How we hate looking in the mirror
It is a reminder
We bathe in darkness
Hate the light
It illuminates the cracks and splinters
It is really quite amazing that we missed the morgue
We are meant to be
She whispers
It is the only reason we survived
I glance at her sideways
Her skin milky and pure
We are happy when we are walking
It makes our head clear
Less blind
There was a hanging
And a thousand overdoses
Perhaps so common
They amount to nothing
When we were crazy we wanted to show our skin
We thought it would tell our story
We sipped lemonade
Rolled up our sleeves
And showed our story
We are thankful for our butterfly
The fading ink
The distance of time
A story in itself
Our survival.