When I feel empty and uncertain,
your ink fills me up with words
and puts my humanity on display.
You can’t ride a bicycle through a flood. Think with your body.
Ink plastered over my body,
fist and stance.
Death over dishonor,
silent soldiers
freshly brewed
but not quite society’s cup of tea.
My soul has gained weight.
Our bodies are not shameful.
You’ve stripped me of my clothes.
I’m too open,
too ready to bleed.
