The New Language

The New Language

There were self - inflicted scars on my hands and on my arms. The red patches of darkened skin were sore and irritating. I imagined myself as a puppet who had fallen off the controlling strings of family and faith. My skin was my outer defense but was it defending me from the world or from myself.

The marks on my skin would gradually evolve into a complex map of streets and alleys. The marks would become a code, a guide, an index crawling on my cold white skin.

The marks were linked to the movement of distant planets and worlds across the universe.

The stars themselves clung to the outlines of the cuts on my fingers and palms. The sunset and sunrise began to observe and follow the sequence of damage and harm on my arms.

Soon horizons of bright and distant constellations surrounded my injuries.

I needed to feel pain and the distraction of harm , the relentless cruelty of the world was mirrored on the surface of my skin.

At midnight ghost children came beside the marks to marvel at the wounds. The icy night

waited for the next cut , the next injury.

Chris Bird