tattoos and fuck yous.

I’ve never had a man hurt me so badly.

It felt like he ripped my heart out and set it on fire. And then laughed at the slowly molting organ- snickering at me while I squirmed uncomfortably and begged him to stop.

He hurts me worse every time I see him.

And yet I go back.

I beg for more while contemplating my affinity for Ike Turner-esque acrobatics with a man I hardly know.  I fear I’m a textbook example of abusive love but then realize my dramatic theatrics have caused me to wrongly asses a situation in which the man I’m with is nothing short of awesome sauce and the love that keeps me crossing off days on the calendar until I can next see him has nothing to do with him (not entirely true), but rather is a symptom of my one true love: art.

Before you vomit at the aforementioned statement of pretentious proportions, I should clarify that while I heart art of the paint on canvas, or performance, or sketched and symbolic sort, the art I happily endure pain that is surely akin to birthing twins. Simultaneously. Sans epidural. Is art of the ink on skin variety.

And while I usually pride myself on some sort of masochistic heightened ability to endure pain, around hour 4 last night, I was… a bit squirmy.

And then I broke a mirror.

And threatened my lovely artist with bodily harm and bite marks if he didn’t stop stabbing my rib cage with purple needles I know I said I wanted this but holy balls I think I may die, just kidding I swear I’ll be good more please more.

I’m sure it sounded like we were having awesome sex of the safety word necessitating variety behind our little curtain, but no- that’s just his needle (that’s what he tells all the girls…).

So while today I’m a bit sore (lie. may in fact die.), I’m the leaps and bounds sort of closer to completing a piece that makes me giddy and defines my soul or something emo in two words: zombie storybook.

Up next? My armpit.

And I promise, there will be bite marks.

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~ by rubylocks on September 17, 2010.

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