The Tattooed Girl

Inked stories on both her arms
quietly keeping to herself
the music pounds and pushes
through walls that are now breathing.
Temperamental and moody
that advice of hers
she closes the space
here between the both of us
she whispers a set of commands.
Words mix and swirl
in the sweltering humidity
we’re anxious to actually meet.
Sweaty glasses slip from hands,
she turns, and her Asian eyes
latch onto mine
and I fall.
I stare at all the hours
drawn up and down her arms
thinking what it must of felt like
holding perfectly still,
just as the dripping needle
made its permanent marks.
I would of held her hand,
if only I had known
she wanted me there
alongside her stoic charms.
We’re here after hours
in this, her beautiful room
the monsoons pound hard outside
we move closer still
without ever truly revealing the mood.
She offers herself up,
asks for me to to draw
whatever it is I want.
With her tiny wrist in hand
the dragonfly on my forearm
is her new companion,
just as the others look
at the tattooed girl.

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