I remember the ink you stuck under my skin.
You loved me you left me, so did it begin.
Your name is tattooed, lying under my skin.

You were the prince of ink.
A cuttlefish they said.
I have your name strung up my arm, but you and I are dead.

You drew pictures of love hearts and flowers.
Added your name,.
I sat in the parlour for hours and hours.
While you, the artist worked.
Weaving magic.
Sadly tragic.
Scars across my open heart.
When we left hand in hand.
The heavens poured their meagre scorn.
Those heart marks wouldn't wash away.
Never in a million would I ever be set free.
A Friday afternoon alcohol session,
My consort was the prince of ink.
He captured my arm, a permanent tag.
Labelled like a superstore, an advertisement upon his bag.
All the world, look where she's been.
Tattooed lady looks obscene.
(C) LIVVI