Suffering pain at your hands is nothing new to me.
So call me a masochist, because I keep coming back, just to be near you.
But the buzz of the needle is as close as I can get to you nowadays.

I wish I could be one of the pin-up girls on the wall of your station –
Something you placed there with intention.
I don’t want to do all the wanting, collection pieces of you on my skin as if I could hold you close.
I want you to want some part of me, too…

I’m trying to crack the consciousness of the man on the other end of the needle,
But when I’m with you I’m held only by black leather –
And your hands only caress me when I’m bleeding.
This is all I’ve ever known of you: the anger in your art, the threat of your touch.

So as usual, I sit still so you can carve your opinions into my flesh.
Mark me as you see fit – you know I only want what makes you happy.
Your hands have been all over my body –
You’ve put your mark on every part of me.
So exploit me. Because you know what you do to me. You know it with precision.
Baby You. Know. Me.

Every memory stands out indelibly on my pale skin.
Every heartache you’ve caused me to suffer is stamped on me in vivid relief.
You. Did this. To me.

And everything you’ve buried in my skin is scarring up and scabbing over,
A stinging pain like a sore worried over by the tongue.
But “don’t pick it” they say.
Swallowing everything you’ve ever done without a thought is just part of the healing process.

Maybe next time I come to you I’ll ask for a suitcase in the middle of my forehead,
Cause god knows I have baggage.
I will never be the same after you –
The impressions you’ve left on my heart are as permanent as the ones inked onto my skin.

So can we integrate the pain, baby?
If I open up my chest, dig underneath my breast, and present to you my heart –
Will you mark it?
Will you put your art on that organ?
I’m already bleeding and spilling life out over your glove-covered hands –
(Why don’t you touch me.)

Ink
Is all you ever give me.
But I’ll take what I can get – so doodle and degrade me.
I’ll keep coming back until I have no more excuses and I’m so covered I can’t see myself anymore.

Anything to get closer to the man on the other end of the needle.