Fingerprints

Your fingerprints left a trail climbing up the
mountain of my spine, every vertebrae
another protruding rock, and rolling down
the valleys of my clavicle.

You created a map of my skin, yet I still
feel lost without you.

I spend hours each night tracing the
curvatures of your glowing fingerprints,
digging my fingernails into my fading flesh
and inhaling sharp breaths.

I thought that my blood would be an antidote
for your love, that I could drain you out of my
soul, but the deeper I dig the brighter you burn
and the faster I fade away.

I have turned the map of your love into a
constellation of scars so that whenever I stare at
my shadowy reflection in the mirror, you are all
I can see.

I have lost myself in the midst of my self-
sabotage, intensifying the memory of you as I
wane into a distant memory myself.

—Victoria Laboz

 

BIO: Victoria Laboz was born and raised in Manhattan. Her writing has been featured in Souvenir Lit Journal, Navigating the Maze Mag, The Apprentice Writer at Susquehanna University, and Thought Catalog. She landed in the top 20 for the 2014 Eichner Poetry Contest, was a reader for Souvenir Lit Journal at the 2015 NYC Poetry Festival, and is currently an intern at Poets House where she assists with literary events.