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.