Birth

It’s under her skin she finds it first, buried beneath all the layers of young, golden skin; flowing through untouched veins, arteries and capillaries and into every blood cell.
It moves into the marrow of her bones after the scars begin to bloom, a flush of red, yellow and purple, across and under her skin; never deep enough to spill blood or life or it.
But it’s under her skin she finds it first, hiding timidly below every layer of skin.
At first simply seeking warmth and the thud of her pulse.
She feels it moving under the skin of her left wrist first; pushing and sliding against muscles and tendons and the pale blue-green veins of her left arm, as if desperate to claw its way out.
She begins to dream in reds and blues and splashes of gold, flecked with gray and silver, and of a dark shifting weight pressing roughly against her chest, and sinking into the hollow of her throat.
In the mornings, pale and surging mutely through the half-closed blinds, a dark flush of red unfolds lazily along her collarbone, only just  peeking out, past the high collar of her dress shirt.
She thinks, I shouldn’t and puts the razor back down; slides it back and behind the all but empty box of Band-Aids.
That night she dreams she is the sea, crashing against the sharp edges of a distant cliff; flowing thickly around jagged edged rocks and into dark crevices and finally settling down at the bottom of the darkest pit like silt.
She thinks I shouldn’t as she puts the razor back down and her left arm shakes and trembles and refuses to do anything more then hang limply by her side; at night she dreams she can hear it snapping wetly through the ligaments in her arm, sliding sharply through and under flesh and bone.
There are smudges of fingerprints fading along the curve of her neck, her upper arm, ghosting down to her ribs; it never hurts anymore and so she doesn’t think about it.
In the mornings though she feels it moving around under her skin, worming its way deep into her flesh, flaying tendons and sinew apart to get to the bone; bulging and snapping the skin on her left arm on it‘s way to her shoulder.
At night she dreams of a dark, looming oak tree that grows out of the center of her chest, its dark, feathered branches casting shadows all around her and catching the stars along its highest peak; she stares at the dark sky from under this large oak, feeling the slow and steady purr of the thing that shares her skin.
In the morning she does not think she will, in fact she does not think at all, but when she drags the sharp side of the razor along the skin of her wrist she feels it slithering higher up her arm, unfurling like a spring flower in every direction, ballooning her skin as it slowly moves higher and higher until her entire upper body is vibrating with the presence of this new invader.
She dreams she is dying and when she wakes up her mouth is filled with blood, it trickles down her chin and onto the dark, bruise that covers her collarbone.
She screams I must and cuts the tip of her middle finger when she reaches back and behind the empty box of Band-Aids for the razor.
It’s morning, pale and muted gray and pouring in thickly through the half-closed blinds of bedroom window ; she stares at her reflection in her bathroom mirror and all she can hear is the slow, steady thud of this second heartbeat rushing to the surface of her skin to greet her.
She is all sharp angles now; skin and bones and long dark hair falling limply past freckled shoulders.
She feels it moving languidly under the skin of her left wrist, pushing and sliding under ligaments and sinew.
The sharp side of the razor chases it into the marrow of her bones; sends it scurrying under her tongue, along the inside of her bottom lip and finally into every taste bud.
After that she finds it hard to breathe, to eat, to sleep.
The taste of it clings to the tip of her tongue, the corner of her mouth; it bubbles up and coats the back of her throat whenever she tries to swallow.
It’s under her skin she finds it first but it doesn’t stay there long.