A Car That Sped

Razorblade racing stripes on the wrist.

Cigarette burn traffic lights on the arm.

Trying to let go.

Trying to stop your memory from racing away from me.

So I leave traces.

Tracks to remind me how to get back to you.

I can slash and burn and you will never know.

Traces.

Scars.

Scars to take me home.

Take me to where you may be.


-from the desk of S.C. Browne