The Tattoo from the Gods

He was born in 1977 and probably conceived in 1976.

In 2017, the roughest patches of him with stubble and the burs that clung to him changed hosts.

Meeting under the most unlikely circumstances and going out,

Mexican on the menu after.

The salty chips and ruby red salsa matched the gleam in his eyes

filling the table space between.

His skin that was covered with memories,

lines, and art made to fill the empty pores of her.

 

The law forbids relationships between creators and the things that live inside of them,

but his fatherly care is so real.

He walks across grand oceans and swims breathless to retrieve her.

Once she is in his possession,

her head rests in his hand.

His veins are filled with hues of sapphire.

He binds them together with a sense of home.

When the fish swim through him and weave through his empty stomach, they are able to see that it was once full.

Full, but now captured by the one who reads the stars and deems their fate untrue.

 

The one who returned the engagement ring in Paris is unworthy of his care.

But she was conceived in 1985 and contains more of his age and wisdom.

When the spiders pour from his tongue, black leeching lies

attaching to his taste buds along the way,

they are able to tell that this man conceived in 1976 or 1977 was once full of imagination mixed with strange senses.

 

But how he decorates the world so beautifully—alone.

You can’t be mad at a creature who is able to create from nothing

even when they are not able to reach the demons in the back of their mind.

He fills her so well and adds decoration to her empty body

forbiddingly loving her along the way.

 

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