skinned ink
written by loren lacruz
It’s been a week since I felt ink.
because I stopped writing under the Moon,
there is no more black goo on my skin,
no more impenetrable prose ready to bleed.
last night I sat in front of my mirror, naked.
I promised that I would never get a tattoo.
Then you came along so fuck a tattoo.
I had only ever been certain of death and what comes of needle and ink,
think of when you first smelled me naked,
because what we both yearned to touch that night was the Moon.
The other night I cried in my sleep because I dreamt that you bled.
O, The words you still kiss onto my skin.
I used to cry but only under my skin.
When I was twelve mami made me promise her that I would not get a tattoo,
that there is no point for art if it leads to bleeding,
but what is good writing if I don’t drown in my own ink.
Tomorrow is ours, you yelled from your backyard, hoping to reach the Moon.
When we get our own place, promise me to leave no canvas naked.
You told me that writing would leave you vulnerable and naked.
The words on the page would begin to crawl under your skin,
yet I hoped that one day you would write with me under the Moon,
maybe we write something beautiful and get it tattooed.
Yesterday you wrote me a letter promising that my tears would never become your ink.
O, to be the pen for you and bleed.
You still bite my lip so hard that I sometimes bleed.
A gently grotesque reminder of when I first heard you naked,
your vicious voice spilling poetry over my body as ink,
not knowing yet if our love was deep enough for our skin.
Today you admitted that in your heart now lies a tattoo.
A constellation from the first night we sat under the stars and the Moon.
I began to write again under Mother Moon.
As it sways the tides it does my wrist, silently watching my pen bleed,
now I really want a fucking tattoo,
because tonight I sat in front of you, naked.
Clothed, you the needle unraveling the thread of my skin.
O, I’m starting to feel like ink.
-loren
