I’m lying there on the paper sheet that is spread across the massage table, gritting my teeth. The tattoo machine buzzes maniacally as he dips the needles into the ink cup and tells a joke. He mixes the greens and the whites and they combine to make a minty shade; my arm is beautiful. Earlier that week a woman asked me if I could even get a boyfriend, because I have so many tattoos. Stigma and prejudice still reign. I think they hurt more than the needles.
As seen on the six sentences blog.
novasawatzky 