She digs the way the needle burns the skin,
As her hands delve nails deeper into the armrest
In the smokey room filled with more slaves to
The contemporary art of abusing yourself, and
She knows she lives for this. the game of how
Best to hide the pain from the painter as he
Wields his ink to flesh with a sadistic, steady
Hand. and sometimes between buzzes, she takes
A breath and catches a glimpse of the reality
Of a lifetime fitting into just twenty minutes.
Paper Thin Skin
My skin is paper
thin and smooth.
you can write on it, if you wish.
make your mark on me.
You can use me
then crinkle me up
and throw me away
I am unsatisfying.
Rip me up into thousands of little pieces
make me into a depressing piece of poetry
or a happy love song
or a sad love song
or a suicide note, whichever you prefer.
I am stained and ripped, no longer white.
Worn from being handled and used.
Your pen stabs my flesh
your words pierce my soul
my eyes water with the inspiration
that is as pure as the black mascara
running down my cheek.