Tatted


Stings ignite on her flesh in fiery revelry
feeling yet, to her, like painted brushstrokes on a greedy canvas.
The buzzing noise of the mechanism dulls--
her skin, her voice; her thoughts are numb--
numb, how she likes it.
Silence breaks--
she looks down, inspecting her brazen colorful addition:
a permanent emblem of herself
permeating her porcelain collage.
Success: the twenty-seventh in her personal collection.
Gone are the fears of wandering eyes
of preposterous expectations and superficial basket cases.
Stoicism rolls off her aura, thick impassiveness hardens her shell.
Few are able to pierce it, uncoil her layers.
Most feed off her manufactured show
while she suffers in her internal entrapment,
her true self scathing to scratch her surface.
Yes, they have bound her and clipped her vocal cords,
But her thoughts, her vital words still remain
warped in her brain, craving release.
So, she found a way,
a voice she knows cannot be overlooked--
with every head turn and wary eye
as all the hypocrites pass by.
Thus, with every tattoo, she breathes a little easier,
a sense of liberation, as these images speak for her.

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