(i)

 

Today is nothing more then this morning, which is nothing more than a few shattered strands of sunlight left on the bathroom floor. They are massacred by the merciless florescent light that bleaches the white tiles and his bony hands. His hair falls down to the sunlight, massacred by those hands and a relentless buzzing. A year’s worth of black strands crisscrossed on the white tile floor, and he is sitting on a stool with his head in his hands. A head of high cheekbones and delicate features and lips almost paler then flesh and crowned, for the first time, in only the softest black fuzz. Green eyes meet themselves in the mirror, unshielded. Lips whisper in synch, “There is nothing without sacrifice.”

            The sun rises and falls into the window but is not brighter then the flickering lights on the wall. It is all very still. He feels as if his hair will never grow again.

            The sun begins to lower, gold rose light kissing the planes and angles of his existence. He stands, stepping over himself, and falls out the door, out the house, into the street.

            The tattoo parlor is empty of clients. He lies on the familiar cold plastic of the table and closes his eyes. Every curve of ‘petite furie’ is imbedded into his psyche, right next to the stars on his shoulder blade and the ‘Quod me nutrit, me destruit” on his wrist. Every curve of ‘petite furie’ is imbedded beneath his collarbone in black ink. The paper of the dollar bills he leaves and of the cigarette he smokes in the street feels the same to his fingers.

            His naked head bows to the neon lights as the ember flares and shudders in time to this staccato life.