Inked

Not once. Twice, thrice she turns
to see in slab
slap in the middle
of his chin
spelled urchin.

She knows she’s weak
to the ink embroidered
in the skin of men
who care not for her
but for whom they wear
down in time
before they find
the next victim for their picturesque bodies.

She likes the pain,
the stings of feelings
when they spill into the dark carbon-heavy blood,
when she’s bit in her tit,
when her slender neck
marked with fingertip
squeezed by the strong palm
doesn’t let go
till her lungs are empty of moans and screams.

In the nirvanic moment of clarity
comes the release stead of pain
when her mind briefly leaves.

Through this fantasy
she leaves the pain
and the man behind
until the next one comes
to abuse her desire
of the ink on ink.