Fresh Ink

The ink is poured slowly into plastic pins,
Small and round,
they seem to hold nothing at all,
but enough to mark me forever.

The colors green and black,
Not mixing,
not yet,
the whirl of the machine as it roars to life,
Buzz.

I’m tense yet exhilarated,
ready for the burn,
ready for the heat,
the sizzle of my flesh as its torn and stained.

The first touch to skin,
the first drop of blood,
mixing with the ink,
a pattern emerges,
streaks of black,
swirls of green.

The blueprint slowly disappears,
beneath the hum of the machine,
the design starting to take shape,
take life upon my skin.

The pain is addicting,
Lancing through my arm,
Settling in my stomach,
A gentle ache,
A reminder that I want this.

This tattoo that will mark me forever,
Never let me forget,
The real pain of your loss,
The real pain of your passing.

They say that love is internal,
and that there are thousand types of love,
ours was real,
and beautiful,
and honest,
this is my memento,
to a time when love was fresh and new,
like the whirling buzz of me getting my first tattoo.