Poetry: Needle Deep
By Rita Heidtman Jan 2010
In vintage music rooms
Amongst strangers
Homemade hurt
In the boredom of the night
In goes the needle ink
Dot
dot
dot...
Thinking themselves strange
They are unafraid
While the girl giggles,
"It hurts, but it tickles"
He dulls the needle
Hard, into her tan skin
already tainted by the pain
of unrecognizable artists
covered, fearless in her travels
she experiences each poke
as one of life's extreme depths
in a pool of blood
that is swept
away by the cotton ball
that lies in his pale and clumsy hand.
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