Ink

I woke up today with a craving for ink.
I can remember the rush,
the excited thrill;
you got like a parent all
creased brows and motherly concern.
I was wary too, and wondered if the
parade of framed safety certificates were genuine.
I showed her what font I wanted
and she traced the image off a screen.
I was a human canvas.
My bum rustled on the plastic sheet and
I had sweaty backs-of-knees.
The needle was tiny,
obscured by the Terminator-style gun,
and I felt well 'ard like
this was really dangerous and
I could take any pain.
She was wearing blue latex gloves
and I idly though of the dentist,
although there were no
Where's Wally? posters here.
It scratched, as she wrote
and wiped
and scored and wiped
and wrote some more.
Your eyes were full of worry;
you mouthed "Are you ok?"
and I nodded, dizzy on fun.
I stared at it all happening,
and then it was over.
Anti-bacterial wipes,
and my arm bound in clingfilm.
Masking tape pulled at the
summer-tinged arm hairs,
and I looked at it
like you would a newborn.
Cash in hand,
then out into the world,
rebranded;
Me and you drank pints of ale,
and Naomi cut a glow stick in two,
flicking our clothes with the fluorescent insides.
We got the train home
and I slept under my coat,
til it was our stop.
The next day I felt like a new person.
I'm ready to feel that again.