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Poetry
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| tattoo | |
| By no1butClo | ||||||
| 23 April 2007 | ||||||
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Read someone's non-fiction piece with the same title and got a bit inspired - thankyou whoever wrote that! I When I walked into the parlour, a mythical humming kept the air on it's toes and the rest of us on edge, waiting. II I wanted him to brand me, to leave a mark upon the skin I'm forced to live in, to make my living in. I wanted something to remind me; there is only one way anything should stay under my skin. I was looking for an image, a mark that wouldn't so much mark me out as keep me to myself, true. III My muscles twitched at needle-prick, but did not budge. I was tattoed in black and red, still as ice with rhythm in my ears.
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