poem-tattoo

T i a . M a r i e |

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“It’s cold, it’s raining, I haven’t slept yet and all I wanted was you on the other side of the bed, “saying I love you.”
—  Phelps Schneide
When the tattoo artist made that first mark on my skin, I began to feel a slight burn. As the needle continued to trace over the more sensitive parts - over my bone, letting the ink go beneath the epidermis, and retracing the lines over my veins to make it as dark as possible, I felt like a candle had just lit a house on fire, and I was both. The pain was bearable, but barely. Then I thought of how much it hurt when you left, and suddenly, the flames went out, and all I felt was a feather tickling my wrist.
—  Thoughts I had while getting my first tattoo (I still think about you) by Ming D. Liu