My father called me an idiot

for tracing the constellations on your back

when I should be buried 

in a drunken daze 

within textbooks and eraser shavings.

on those days I etch my markings harder than I intended

as a reminder

that I won’t leave you behind.

When you hide the marks of rejection

with your skinny folded arms,

I pass by your obscured being

and wonder why you are hiding

only to see your self-inflicted blemishes

vitiate all the past constellations
that have found a home

buried in the warmth of your skin.

perhaps you did not like them 

perhaps you did not need them 

as much as I did

By then I could only pretend 

to not see them

so I can justify scratching more

under the skin of your acne scars

below your muddled birthmarks

in careful

thinly precision

I dedicate myself to my work

so time would no longer
be our enemy.

So I could perhaps become a creature of permanence
on a body that I no longer recognize as mine

But it does not take long to find 
it was only a temporary satisfaction 

a mere product of reckless sadness

By then I could only wish
to take back all the time I wasted
painting every dip of your body with the night’s constellations
that I no longer bother
to see or acknowledge