she stood seemingly perfectly arranged, admixture of coyness, bemused tolerance, majestic sideways downturned eyes, suggesting the line of her spine turning up into her ass, awareness of herself twisting towards the viewer. i stare at her for hours as i get my tattoo. yakuza wife. flesh property of some shadowy presence, the trophy of a name shrouded in smoke.
i could look at her forever, her hands folded into each other as if cradling a vase, her legs beginning to spread. as i watch her, body covered in needled colors, i become aware of her embedded calm, of her sharp poise. her body is loose and taut at the same time, her right breast jutting upwards, her nipple a soft punctuation in the outline against the darkness.
the body glove of her tattoo somehow makes her nakedness detached, protected from the desiring capture of the camera. her body has already been visibly claimed. money, power, ink penetrating the skin. i wonder what she is like in her unguarded moments, in her unconscious dreams where she is unmarked, innocent, and unprepared. but maybe we have no such space within ourselves, and everything we are is touched by someone, fingers branded in our veins, eyes pricked into our souls. there is nothing, perhaps, that can be hidden.
only claimed, renamed, and tattooed.


Author: manderson

I live in NYC.

One thought on “Tattoo”

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