My Art

My Art

by Abigail

I forget about them sometimes, startle when I catch a glimpse drying off after a shower. The scrolling of words along my side that makes me turn and look at them all, crane my neck in the mirror. Each has significance, reason and meaning. For all that I always rolled my eye at being called an angel, I like the look of them on my back. I love the look on Roberts face when he saw them. Like he can't believe they're there. The feel of flints fingers tracing the letters or Brenda kissing the cross as she goes by.