Stencil forged precisely to the hip margin.
A sip of Irish Whisky.
Not for good measure.
The contours are textbook.
Vintage spring loaded Viceroy razor.
The canvas is esetablished.
Disarming deposits of ink into d e r m i s.
Pounding skin wasnt always her thing.
After all the wife of a pastor.
Pews that spewed false witness.
Each pass of the needle would lay claim.
This covering belonged to her.
Two doves kissing the neck.
An angel crying on the thigh.
A rose to caress the tricep.
An owl stretching on the collar bone.
Feathers falling down her chest.
Every place he left a scar she hid.
Her story will be told outwardly.
She lets rain fall into the pages of her Bible.
These words pressed into parchment.
P e r m a n e n t.
Her God will be known by her skin.
The next piece is a lantern on her foot.
She wiggles her toes in anticipation.
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