Ink’s Whispered Cartography #poetry

I trace the needle’s hum,  
a vibration stitched into yesterday’s skin—  
you, standing there, will ask me tomorrow,  
“What tattoo do you want?”  
and I’ll laugh,  
because the ink already blooms  
where the collarbone dips,  
a raven with eyes like fractured clocks.  
Its wings spread wide,  
feathers spill over my chest,  
tickling the ribs I once broke  
falling from a tree  
in a summer that never ended.  

She walks into the parlor now,  
third person slipping through the door,  
hair like spilled ink,  
and the artist watches her  
with a needle poised,  
a priest of permanence.  
“What tattoo do you want?” he asks her,  
and she points to the moon  
tucked behind her ear—  
a crescent, waxing,  
etched where sound once kissed her skull.  
You’ll see it later,  
when she tilts her head  
and whispers secrets  
you swore you’d never hear again.  

I wanted the ouroboros,  
a snake eating its tail,  
coiled around my wrist—  
past tense curling into future,  
a loop where I bite my own end.  
You’ll touch it someday,  
run your fingers over the scales,  
and ask, “Where’d you put it?”  
as if the question wasn’t born  
in the marrow of my pulse.  
It’s there now,  
or will be,  
or was—  
time frays like thread  
beneath the buzzing gun.  

He stands shirtless in the mirror,  
third person gazing at a stranger,  
and decides the spine deserves a ladder—  
rungs climbing from tailbone to nape,  
each step a year he forgot to live.  
“What tattoo do you want?”  
the reflection mouths,  
and he answers with silence,  
letting the ink bleed  
into the hollows  
where vertebrae whisper regrets.  
You’ll climb it,  
your hands tracing the ascent,  
and wonder if he ever reached the top.  

I am the canvas,  
you are the question,  
she is the answer threading through—  
a trinity of want stretched taut.  
I’ll carve a constellation  
across my thigh,  
stars birthed in a night  
I haven’t slept through yet.  
Orion’s belt cinches the muscle,  
a hunter stalking futures  
where you’ll press your lips  
and say, “This is where it belongs.”  
Did I choose it?  
Will I?  
The stars pulse,  
and I think they chose me.  

You walk barefoot  
through a memory I haven’t made,  
toes curling against sand,  
and decide the ankle needs a wave—  
a curl of blue crashing inward,  
salt stinging where the skin thins.  
“What tattoo do you want?”  
I’ll ask you then,  
and you’ll smile,  
pointing to the tide  
that laps at your bones.  
It’s there already,  
or it will be,  
a flood I’ll drown in  
when the needle sings.  

They gather,  
a chorus of strangers,  
third person plural painting the air—  
one inks a lotus  
where the elbow bends,  
petals folding into creases  
of a life she bent too far.  
Another scars their calf  
with a phoenix,  
ashes smoldering  
from a fire they’ll ignite tomorrow.  
“What tattoo do you want?”  
the wind asks them all,  
and they answer in tongues,  
their bodies a gallery  
of unspoken hymns.  

I wanted a word once—  
“Eternal”  
scrawled across my palm,  
lines crisscrossing fate.  
You’ll read it,  
or you did,  
your thumb brushing the ink  
until it fades  
into the creases  
of a hand I’ll forget to unclench.  
Where would I put it now?  
The question gnaws,  
and I think the throat—  
a chokehold of letters  
vibrating with every breath.  

She dances,  
third person spinning  
in a room I’ll never enter,  
and plants a rose  
where her hip flares—  
thorns pricking the skin  
she offered to no one.  
You’ll see it,  
or you won’t,  
when she lifts her shirt  
and the petals blush  
against a light  
that never touched me.  
“What tattoo do you want?”  
someone asked her once,  
and she laughed,  
because the rose  
was always there,  
waiting to bloom.  

I will tattoo the void—  
a black square  
on the small of my back,  
an absence swallowing light.  
You’ll press your hand there,  
feel the nothing,  
and ask, “Where’d you put it?”  
as if the answer isn’t  
the shadow I carry  
into every room.  
It’s done,  
or it will be,  
a mark unmaking me  
one stitch at a time.  

You stand at the edge,  
second person teetering,  
and choose the forehead—  
a spiral spinning inward,  
a map to a mind  
you’ll lose tomorrow.  
“What tattoo do you want?”  
I’ll whisper,  
and you’ll trace the curve,  
saying, “Here,”  
as if the skull  
wasn’t already  
a labyrinth  
I couldn’t escape.  

He kneels,  
third person humbled,  
and inks a tree  
across his chest—  
roots plunging  
where the heart beats,  
branches clawing  
toward a sky he’ll never touch.  
“What tattoo do you want?”  
the artist asked him,  
and he said, “Life,”  
as if the word  
could grow  
beyond the skin  
that cages it.  

I am,  
you will be,  
they were—  
a tapestry of ink  
unraveling across tenses.  
I’ll tattoo a clock  
on my tongue,  
hands ticking  
with every word  
I’ll never say.  
You’ll taste it,  
or you did,  
and ask, “Where’d you put it?”  
as the seconds dissolve  
into a mouth  
that forgets its own name.  

She rises,  
third person shedding skin,  
and marks her shoulder  
with a wing—  
one half of a pair  
she’ll never complete.  
“What tattoo do you want?”  
the world demands,  
and she flies,  
leaving the question  
to feather  
into dust.  

We collide—  
I, you, they—  
a mosaic of want  
and where.  
The needle hums,  
past stitches present,  
future bleeds into now.  
What tattoo do I want?  
A scream  
across my knuckles,  
a galaxy  
behind my eyes,  
a thread  
tying me to you  
to them  
to me again.  
Where would I put it?  
Everywhere,  
nowhere,  
always—  
the skin  
is never enough.

#Poetry #Surrealism #TattooArt #IdentityInInk #TimeAndSkin #BodyCanvas #InkAndSoul  #CreativeWriting