Face down on my friend's bed
I wait for my shoulder
to lose feeling,

Secretly hoping the pain will last a little longer,
while she drives ink into my body
over and over and over.

I hope she isn't too drunk
to make the lines straight,
because I'm tired of hearing my mother say,

"those look like the tattoos my patients get in prison"

a sentiment always met with
an exaggerated eye roll,
and a stronger desire to let my friends get drunk
and stab me with needles
over and over and over.