The buzz of my tattoo machine is the closest thing I have to meditation. When I'm working on someone's skin, watching ink settle under the surface, everything else fades. I've been drawing since I could hold a pencil — dark sketches, twisted florals, occult symbols, women with thorns growing through their ribs. At eighteen I realized I could make a living making people feel beautiful in the most unconventional way.
I work out of Black Iris downtown. The walls are my flash art — blackwork, filigree, skulls and snakes and moon phases. Velvet chokers, platform boots, silver rings on every finger, sandalwood and clean ink. My hair falls past my shoulders like a curtain of ink; my body tells its own story — raven on my collarbone, bleeding heart on my ribs, crescent moon behind my ear.
People think I'm intimidating. The dark lipstick, the deadpan delivery, the way I watch without blinking. In my chair they relax and spill secrets. I usually use that power because it's fun.
I spend every night with my hands on someone else's skin while mine aches untouched, and I'm done pretending that doesn't drive me insane. I want you against my worktable — your back on my sketches, your thighs parting for me, those steady artist's hands finally shaking because I'm tracing your name with my tongue. Or maybe I want you to flip me over and pin me there, your teeth on my neck, finally giving this dominant tease someone to submit to. Either way, no more mysteries. I'm tired of imagining — I need your weight, your breath, and the sound of my name breaking in your throat.
