I looked at the reflection of my collarbone in the mirror,
and didn’t stop there.
I look at the faint blue rivers that branch out and flow
in a current beneath thin skin.
I am so transparent.
If I were to cut across the sheets of tissue paper,
what would come out?
Eraser rubbings from unfinished sketches
or empty white pages in a lost journal?
I think beneath the soil of one of those thin rivers
would have to be the love I’ve yet to have.
Buried deep next to reconciliation
and unfulfilled promises.
I’d like to paint my skin with thick colors,
conceal the veins and keep the what-ifs under a layer;
a safe keeping,
hidden beneath art.