these walls are high and they
are thick
but if the same goes for my skin, why have I
let so many needles pierce
me,
people think I can roll with the punches, but I
am bruised,
the tips scroll up and down and around my arms
my legs
the side of me and inside of me,
the ink runs in
my veins,
words they have carved into me that will not fade
and cannot be
removed
even if their owners are long-gone;
left to bear the shame
and the
sweet times, if few and far in between;
the most painful of the
ink
was probably the one over my heart, the one
that was written:
I love you