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writegirl@altavista.com
A Message To Rafe...
Nervously I reclined back onto the table trembling and your hand slipped into mine. He touched the needle to my flesh and I winced only to have your hand grasp tighter, melting into me.
A right of passage, placing visible scars on my body, a sweet slightly genuine purple violet. A childhood remembrance of the beastly, yet gorgeous days of mother and father, of family. A fistful of sweet violets rescued from the florist heap brought home for mother to place in a Flintstones jelly jar on the side table in the sunroom. The room where the shades clenched out the sun when all three of us, their children had the mumps. A dazzling sunny room turned sick and sad.
Here I am with you. “Be here.” I say to myself. “Feel it.” A modern primitive etching and you walking with me through the ring of treacherous fire.
A silent buzz cutting into my skin, an Exacto blade slicing. I can feel the shape of each petal being formed, coming to life upon my skin. Him wiping away the blood.
I look at you, your eyes full of love for me. I know you will be with me through the rough patches when all seems to be lost. I know you will be there when our baby is squeezed forcefully into the light of life. I know you will stand by my when the demons prance through my brain and gibberish comes out of my mouth. I know if my face melts off and I have no eyes to devour you with, there you will be standing strong as a trumpet singing my last praises.
I wanted to give you an orchid all sumptuous, opening, revealing, sensuous, stained forever onto the spot at the base of my spine. A visual for you when you unleash yourself into me from behind. But you say no, after the tattooist said it was one of the most sensitive spots for placement, “utter agony”, I believe he said. A tiny flower near your belly button you suggested, so when I look up over the landscape of your stomach and see your eyes looking into mine I will remember always your pain. To know how much more loving you need than most women.
Oh, I let out a little moan, one of mild terror, as he begins to set in the color. It reminds me of when I walked barefoot and stepped on the glowing ember of a discarded cigarette. Yes cigarette burns over and over and over. He rushes the burning right up to the edge, the line he cut to create the flower. Again and again and again.
“Almost done.” you whisper.
I stand, a little dizzy, and look down at the violet, the skin red and mean, so tightly full of your child. I try to button my cut-offs but it is of no use. I can not bear the feeling of cloth against the etching. I leave them open, agape, waiting for your next visit.
You pay the man and kiss my lips, your arm slipping around my waist. Bending to my ear, you say, “This pain too will be forgotten one day...I promise.”
I believe you.