She wanted to remain pure, unstained, unpoked. She had toyed with getting a tattoo but realised it wasn’t individual anymore. But she was in need of validation. Was she past her peak? She’s still cool right?
The needle stuck into her skin like the scent of an old lover. It left a fizzy sensation behind. The ink spread. She kept poking, stabbing, stick n poking.
What emerged was a star.
Startled, strained by Tar, scarred, her sparkle faded.
My experience of doing a stick n poke tattoo of a star on myself. My thoughts on my first tattoo. I called my star tattoo Tar.
You watch as the blood from my wrist trickles onto your carpet. Paying no mind until it starts to stain I whisper, "I'm sorry; please help me" You roll your eyes and usher me out of your comforting, inviting home into the cold, desolate outside. Crimson tears form in my eyes raising my voice, "I need your help!" Instead, you give me an ignorant smile before you slam the door. An incomprehensible scream for acknowledgement exits my body Peering through the window, I see you cover my bloodstain with a rug. You would rather act as if it never existed than try to stop the blood or simply clean the stain. I'm now outside; being left to rot in the earth So instead I will stain your flower bed.
Here's the meaning I got from my poem. From personal experience, people to like to act like there's a problem with your depression or suicidal tendencies until it bleeds into their lives. Then, they act still barely acknowledge the problem and try to erase from their lives. They don't try to help us when we need it more than ever. It's about what we really need. We need someone to acknowledge that we have a problem and make strides to help that problem instead of acting as if nothing happened. The poem is saying that it's better for people to help those in pain than to be ignorant. If you don't, then it just ends up causing the stain to get bigger and more public.
Spilled soda Sticky on the carpet Red and glaring Watching me. So I scrub So I clean But it doesn't go away So I scrub So I scream And I watch the stain And it watches me back. A never-ending cycle of Scrubbing And Cleaning and then I look down at where I have been cleaning and I see that my hands are bleeding that the blood is not my own and then I start screaming
I might be insane, or sick of the mind, but my nightmares, don't always happen at night.