Blood and Ink

An idea.
It can be more.
A picture.
A payment.
You show up.
An outline
of the picture,
a ghost of what
awaits you.
A needle.
No warning.
No preamble.
No smalltalk.
Fire
on your skin.
Hell.
The idea comes
to life,
and like
every beginning,
ugly.
Each brush stroke
is agony.
Then,
a curious thing,
you relish the pain,
look forward to it.
Heaven.
Time stops.
Only you.
Only the artist.
Hot copper
and paint smells.
Your heart sinks.
Is this it?
This is it.
Nods of approval
from strangers
of the tribe.
Some show you
their scars.
You belong with us,
they say.
Your heart soars.
Then it is over.
You belong to them.
You belong with them.
Throbbing.
Visible.
Warm.
Real.
Tangible.
The idea manifested.
You are marked.
You are different.

 

 

Are you different?