Fast Forward Facing.

Forty-eight after four. No work today and the keys call. One left. It drags so I wander. Downward glance and one stands out. It's good to be irregular.

Digging prepped pain and the way your skin stains.

So I took it and made it mine. Now my streaks gain praise and sideways glances from the ones whose numbers are supposed to gain respect. Most open their minds, or at least pretend to. Turn arm over and one foot drops. Thumbs up doesn't mean good luck. I want another. Nail in the coffin; I'm not finished. So you'll stare in my face and mark my words by the way my lips move. One most won't see, but summer finds its ways. This one's all out. This one's something to write home about.

I like the way this feels. I crave something commonly feared. I want color left; I want to make my scars purposeful and beautiful. Always tasteful and never out of moderation like a binge drinker. I don't see anything; anyone but me saying stop or go. I control spped. Marks on shins, knees, and mind are erased; girl's restless to make more. I learn fast. I process slow. I live with every intent to remind myself of every moment lived. I'm well on my way.

I'm running forward too fast to let my vision wander.