What is it about a tattoo
That I love?
The pain? Maybe.
I love the way it hurts
When it's actually something
That I want.
Or the way the needle
Touches the skin
And I become the canvas.
My body becomes the canvas
For the work of art
A display for all to see
And some to admire.
Perhaps I enjoy the way
The hand moves in a way so graceful
That the artist
Actually becomes an author.
Perhaps because the piece
Becomes a background of who I am.
And who I am is different.
Different is the same as beauty
In the eye of the beholder.
Or to those
Who only see it as more ink
On a blank piece of paper.