I get an itch sometimes, and the keys won’t do.
That muscle memory is more fresh
than the long practiced
pen in hand.
There are times it can be sated with a brush
Or some other act of color.
But the prickle for the pen
Creates appetite
gratified
only by
The scratch of the paper.
The ball rolls and glides
with ease it swirls around sweet letters,
Or flies swift and hard,
digging grooves in the surface.
The paper is my skin
And I tattoo with nostalgia or vengeance.
Like therapy,
Like masochism.