How vain.
How fake.
This abstraction on skin.
What does that ink mean to you.
The minute it intruded on your body.
The blood popping vessels.
Like the taste of a dime,
Made salad.
My skin is more precious than that.
And as I turn my head away
From your canvass as a walking
Talking form of art.
Who am I to judge
What of its content.
Its meaning.
Are you missing -
Or am I missing out.
Dressed in plain plaid.
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