tattoos;

I have an unhealthy preoccupation with drawing on myself.
I love the way the black ink soaks into my skin and stains it with a spidery web of ivory magic, that spins and curves and bends out into a caricature of all the emotions I cannot express, the scars I bandage underneath my facade raised to the surface in ridges of deep, onyx complications.
And I think it is beautiful, staining myself like that—poisoning myself with the dregs of dead originality, ashen tendrils of the long-disappeared truth.





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