Skin Art

It wasn't like the ink or tattoo needle could be dirty. The shop looked sterile and clean, if a little too clean, when I was eighteen. Now I am in my mid-thirties, and every time I take off my shirt, the skeleton on my breast looks a little bigger and definitely more angry.

This morning, I woke up sore, and looked at my chest. It was scarred, missing something. A deep, bloody coffin shaped gash is ripped open, like looters tore a temple asunder searching for treasure. From my rib cage to my right breast was a gore covered trench.

Now, seconds later, a swinging harvester's blade cleaves the air above my face. Grave dirt peppers down, sticking to my tears of anguish and fear. First the man craved the ink, now the ink craves the man.











138 Words