Little Prose Poem

Sizzling, like the bellies of pale children under the Texas sun, my nerves race.

Signs all around me- images, drawings, and sketches' the hourglass resting gently on its side. She , with her snake's tongue, tells me it means 'breakthrough.'

Slipping out of my clothes, dangerously close to being too seductive. She, with her hands and arms covered in tattoos fitting together like disheveled puzzle pieces, reaches towards my hips, pulls down my skirt a little more. Exposing my blue underwear in the back of the small parlor.

The black table is like a prisoner's bed- cold, hard, unfriendly with the scent of cleaning supplies. no bacteria. no infections. no blood stains marking the innocence taken from other 18 year old girls who didn't know what they were doing.

Snap. Snap; the gloves popping against her wrists, securing her germs. But, saving her hands from the tarnish that will leak out of my hip and into the world.

The clinging, like metal pots, as she rustles through the drawers trying to find her perfect tool- her best friend, her gun. The swift sound of paper tearing as she pulls a new needle from its airtight containment exposing it to the harm the AC expels into the parlor and the germs filthy men and women breathe out.

Leathery, her hands rest against my hip, tugging on my skin- pulling it tight, then tighter. Stretching the pores wide open, preparing them for their drowning. The gun, the vibrating, the buzzing noise echoing, touches my flesh- I do not flinch like I was afraid.

The burning of the skin, like alcohol was poured onto it and someone lit it on fire. The first trailing the layer of alcohol, smoldering my skin into an ashy black color.

Piercing small depths of innocence, leaking peacefulness out of the open wounds that gush violently with fluid black ink, which will rest underneath the layers of my skin until far after my death when my body hollows and my skin rots pathetically buried underneath the Earth's majestic surface.