I Am Art

“You ready?”

Am I? I’m here because I want to be, on this table with my pants undone, here waiting for him to make me beautiful through pain.

“Yes, please.”

I’m proud there’s no tremor in my voice. My insides do the trembling until the first bite of the needle. The clench of my teeth keeps me from gasping.

Can you ever brace enough for the pain?

No because this pain sinks in with the ink, drifting below the layers of skin to my bones.

Warm air fans across my skin, stirring the little hairs on my arm. God, I feel him. His breath, his skin against mine, his arm holding me down.

He penetrates deeper and deeper, and I shake as he injects me with color. He’s leaving himself inside me, a permanent reminder that he was there.

Over my hip, along the crease of my thigh, outlining the most private part of me with ink.

I am his for a little while. I am totally his.

“I’m done. Tell me what you think.”

“Beautiful.”

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I like it when you talk to me

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