The Line

Outside the sea rages, 

A small comfort of normalcy. 

I trace the line before it can fade further into oblivion.

It spirals across my chest, my arms, my thighs.

It is thick in some places, and careless, like a toddler handling a crayon. 

In others, it is as though as tattoo artist has taken special precision.

The line dips off from me, onto the cold linoleum of the shower. 

It bleeds into the water, like ink from a quill, turning black as an oil slick.

The line threatens to drown me

Suffocate me 

Encompass me

The line is unforgiving. It's ink stains me, marks me. 

It is my undoing 

And yet it holds me together,

Like a cover binding a book. 

The line knows me.