Scribbles

Scrawls on her thigh, a graffiti’d fa la of punk and blue ink coiling on her calf, plaiting down to her ankle. A map of sorts, for the illiterate or lazy, those too incurious to ask. She is a work in progress, with freckles on her nose that go skin deep, but no one asks about the girl she was, the woman she is. They see those lines and spirals, scribbles that mean something to someone, a rough sketch of her life; esoteric more than erotic, but no one wants to translate her scripture.

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