skin sketches ☾ sigson

Once I had a dream that I spit up snakes; scales rubbing against the roof of my mouth but it didn't hurt or anything. I bit down on venom and the two of them snaked around my arms, like bracelets and arm sleeves and that's pretty much all that happened. One of them bit into my skin, two red dots that didn't bleed but the taste of them sat in my mouth until I woke up and it was wild, sitting on the couch rubbing my skin for snake bites; see, us Blackwells take dreams personally.

It's the only language our soul knows after all. 

My mother always told me to listen for it, that every thing has meaning and all I had to do was translate, but that's like, really fucking dumb sometimes. Rolling out of bed with the sound of hissing in my ears, I can't think of anything else that happened in my dream. Racking anything in my brain as I rubbed palms into headaches -- hell if I know. It was dark? Sitting up, there's a fly in my coffee cup from last night, it's dead and I feel bad but there's not much I can do. I have my own people to bring back. 

I slept loose, the winter cold supposed to be good for your emotions you know? Like, something about connecting thoughts and feelings, makes you more stable; no customers, no waiting list but that's fine! I pull my hair behind my head, the pile of books on my table stacked to eye level and fuck, uhhh which is the one I need. Some thing like 'Windows To The Soul!' or something, I have no idea. Crossed legged and my knuckles pressed into my cheeks, it's something I like about living alone, just my spirit and I, my mom doesn't have to worry about cleaning up after me.

Book, book, book, lame shit after lame shit; they're all cool actually oh god what if I offended them, knowledge has to be respected. Or you like, die or something. My fingers scan each book's spine like braille and I have no idea what any of these books are oh my god, where did I even get the most of these from? 

Okay, truth be told I stole some. 

Some my mother's, most things in my tent are her's and it's nice 'cause it keeps her on my mind, right? I never forget about her because I'm always stubbing my fuckin toe on her old coffee table -- I like to walk while I read. Walk while I drink, walk while I think, sometimes walk in my sleep; it's a Blackwell thing. I don't know how far back our whole witch thing goes but I like to think my mother started it, but that's a big ole nasty lie. I know one of these books has an Linda Blackwell dug into the spine and that's not even my mother's name! My mom's name is like, Eleanor. 

My father always called her Ellie and so I always did too, since it made her smile. Back in the day, she would read customer's palms in our living room while I sat cutting the cat's hair while she slept; she was better than me at this whole witchery thing. She always told me not to make a career out of it too, not that I was bad at it -- oh my god how fucked up would that be? I take a sip of coffee and cough up the fly, I've got no fucking idea what I'm even looking for. 

And maybe that's why she told me not to try to do this on my own, besides district twelve being ass broke and barely anybody can afford it. I'm built of her bones, a single rib cell, I'm the one thing my mother created that survived and she wanted that title to last for as long as it could, but she's supports me. She knows I'm trying my best, as unorganized as I- FUCK YES I FOUND IT I THINK

Gold text, black spine: Essence of Translating. 

Nearly give myself a paper cut trying to flip past enough, I know the page number from my heart yet I couldn't remember the name itself. Snakes, snakes snakes snakes, strumming my finger along every page and pulp, black ink pressing into the walls of my fingertips -- salamanders, same sex marriage, sandpaper. Only one strikes my fancy but it doesn't apply at all, what am I looking for again? Uhhhh. 

Oh!

Snakes.

Generally it means dealing with an uncomfortable situation or unsettling emotions, and I mean I guess? Birthing twin serpents from my mouth isn't my grade a hobby I'm assuming, and I set the book back down, top of the left stack. And I place my eyes back into my hands, closing them and staring into nothing but focus until I give myself a headache; emotions, emotions. What's going on, feel free to tell my soul. Shit, I have no idea. I rub my palms into the corners of my eyes, trying to soothe the headache back out and maybe my mother was right. Maybe all of this should've died with her.

Oh well. 

There's a knock at the door, heavy and full knuckled and I'm oddly turned on- "shit, fuck, ow oh my god," running my foot into the corner of the table in front of me. A book falls, "ohhhhhhhhhhh my god fuck me," leaning to one side as I open the door, "aye!"

She holds herself well, probably something on her mind, "he-" I cut her off, taking her arm in my hand and smiling, "come in, come in!" Try to look uhhh, less in pain.

I've gotta make my mother proud here.