branding raze she singes a symbol without reason into the unmarked flesh of an anxious friend. no scent to sell the sear. only ink without end, and pain with no words to make it known. she raises the iron to the_back_of_my_hand. the book of our life is one hundred and twenty pages long. thicker than a thing so thin should be. it has a hard black back. i tell her the rest of the story belongs to her. to write or edit as she sees fit. i close my eyes, knowing she'll be gone when i open them again. i trace the nascent scar and read the braille burned into my body to bring back what's been lost one dip and divot at a time. 250214 what's it to you? who go blather from