I want to mark my skin
like the ever-stained hem of the sleeves
that lick my knuckles like the sea foam
of a southern beach.
I want each pore to be filled
with the same heaviness that each streak
of watered-down mascara holds
as it lingers on the ends of my worn-out shirt sleeves.
Every line must mirror the soul
trapped in the blackened rivers
that forever run parallel to each other.
The curves crafted by the needle
will sway with same helium
he fills my chest with;
the crosses and dots will pack
the kisses he planted tenderly on my lips.
My first tattoo must be more than ink,
it must be heart.