The day I almost got a tattoo

I think we have all secretly wanted a tattoo before,

as dark as the shadow that follows you into various

questionable tattoo parlors where you suddenly

feel as brave as the red neon lights that spell out

a dare. You try imagining a pair of black, delicate wings

fluttering on the nape of your neck, beneath a wedding veil,

or a tiny figure eight tracing the veins of your wrist,

alongside the tubes of an IV bag. There are more people

in the shop than you expected, and you begin to judge them

because you suspect that they are judging you.

In the very neuron where ink first bled, you begin to doubt

why you wanted anything so permanent anyways,

and as suddenly as a drop of blood blossoms

from the quick prick of a needle, you retreat through

the very door you just entered. Sometimes I feel like my dreams

are too similar to the tattoos I never got: the same fears

have kept both my skin and my life unchanged.


*The style of this poem was inspired by a poet that I follow on tumblr: writingsforwinter.tumblr.com.