Tattooed Everything

‘Sheets of empty canvas
Untouched sheets of clay
Were laid spread out before me
As her body once did’

Sometime in the future…

“Poets are liars.”

Jennifer walked out on me today because I called her Abby… but really I think it’s cause she got sick of my inability to give. Orgasms are one thing I guess, but most people want to feel some sort of “connection”, some scorching in the throat to convince themselves they’re feeling. No judgment will be passed from my side, plus I wish her all the best; after all… I used to be someone who felt things and loved people.

Used to…’

‘All five horizons
Revolved around her soul
As the earth to the sun
Now the air I tasted and breathed
Has taken a turn’

Sometime in the past

“Poets are liars.”

I experienced love in my dreams. Perhaps it has something to do with all the dreaming about her. My long-haired, pale-skinned dream. The first time it happened I cried in my sleep and I felt the burn of her lips on mine for years thereafter… I still do. To stare into nothingness or the most picturesque landscape was to be thrown back into that snapshot moment of forever, and she had no idea I was reaching for her, but then neither did I.

Oh, but she found me, and everything changed in my knowledge I’d be temporary, and she would be the end.

It’s only fair to end off where one began.

‘ and all I taught her was everything
Oh I know she gave me all that she wore
And now my bitter hands
Chafe beneath the clouds
Of what was everything’

We were aimless at first. Just two souls dancing and clashing and sometimes, meeting perfectly in semblance. Almost choreographed in awkward bumpy, rhythm-less touches of one to the other. She taught me that to create was to give everything away, not expecting anything in return. I could only teach her how to survive, to pretend, and never to trust poets.

I’ve stopped being a poet since… now I draw the fantasies of silly little Abbys, Jennifers and generally girls who romanticize the permanence of ink on their gullible, sapped skins.

I remember her every kind word…that permanence will be mine.

‘Oh the pictures have
All been washed in black
Tattooed everything’

Sometime or other

“poets are liars.”

I wake up drenched and shivering with my arm outstretched towards that side of my bed that was once occupied. That’s when the itch begins. It starts behind my vocal cords and I can’t even scream. My eyes are next, but I can’t cry so the shaking and drench only worsens.

So I lift the machine, I take off my shirt and distribute just enough ink to cover my “heart”. Not that I believe I still own one.

This is a madman meditating to the sound of a needle and not to stop until the itching subsides, or at least until I am able to cry.

I take a walk outside
I’m surrounded by
Some kids at play
I can feel their laughter
So why do I sear

Present time

“poets are liars.”

I chose this repetitive phrase, because it is true, which is why I can’t poem anymore. I’ve been learning the value of honesty… truth…transparency…fighting for the woman I love. This is a forward to a time where I might be alone, but maybe I won’t. There are no givens, no certainties, but I can’t help but give myself away for what I hope is the last time. The itch is ever present and it reminds me it is there as I trip over my shoelaces, though in the park; no one cares about embarrassment.

I hope.

‘Oh, and twisted thoughts that spin
Round my head
I’m spinning
Oh, I’m spinning
How quick the sun can drop away’

Sometime or other

“poets are liars.”

I can feel my hand pressing way harder than is recommended for proper ink work… but it makes no difference now. Let me be the embryo of ugly grey scar-tissue. Let it bleed and tare and scream in its muted expression, how much it feels like being abandoned or worse, being lied to. I’m no longer a poet…

My drawing lines thicken.

‘And now my bitter hands
Cradle broken glass
Of what was everything
All the pictures had
All been washed in black
Tattooed everything’

…and thicken…

All the love gone bad
Turned my world to black
Tattooed all I see
All that I am
All I’ll be

…and thicken…

‘I know someday you’ll have a beautiful life
I know you’ll be a star
In somebody else’s sky
But why
Why
Why can’t it be
Why can’t it be mine’

But I am not a poet, and grammatically this sentence is incorrect because of the first word. Also… I don’t own a tattoo machine (yet) and I’m only still learning to draw, as I am learning to love, to interact… to live and not feel guilty for it. And if you are to be someone else’s star, my love I’d look up to you while my lines thicken. But until that day comes, I refuse to be a poet, I refuse to think back or forward or sideways. Promise me to look here and I will lock gazes with you and we can paint and laugh and love and fight… do all the things I’d miss, while you’re still mine.

I love you.