she had never fallen in love with a man with tattoos.
no, the guy with the 'friend' tattoos didn't count.
they looked like **** and she remembered
how one used to bleed.

she had wondered what attracted her to this one.
he was bitter, and sour, lemons and limes
puckering up.
he complained.
his job was never enough, his food,
his bed.
she had no reason. perhaps it was his voice,
the accent with spiked inflection and soft spoken
syllables. she knew it definitely was the tattoos.

covered. black ink. pressed into skin.
maybe it was the pain she thought.
the hours spent. what are the stories? she'd ask.
there are no stories.
do you regret?
no. he says.

he likes to ****. she likes that about
him. he likes to read.
******* and tattoos. pain and pleasure. pleasure and pain.
she wonders if he can read her like she can read him.

they are both unhappy. they are both stuck.
but he gives her the pain, the pleasure.
he gives her the moment of forgetting, she hadn't had that.
she traces his tattoos with her peeling fingers.

does this hurt? no. he says.
can i hurt you? yes. she says.

what is it about the tattoos? is it the
artwork? the needle prodding.
inside, tearing the pores, the atoms,
blood bubbles bursting.

she thinks and bites his lip.
why are we addicted to this strange pain?

she's not in love with this man, but she
is in love with the hurt.
she craves it.