The Ink Beneath Her Soul
The woman had something in her lower nature that responded to the appeal of the dark.
Tuesday afternoon— no one paying attention. The weight of marriage and motherhood settled so comfortably on her shoulders She needed a reminder— there is still something unspoken in her soul. Something ancient. Something alive.
And she knew something dangerous was what the doctor ordered.
Her doppelgänger. Her alter ego.
Delicate. Dainty. Winding, deliberate—coiling across the landscape unseen, low enough that only the ocean or a lover would find it.
Eight arms. Eight truths. Creature of camouflage, Escape, Adaptation— Never ceasing to be herself.
The artist asked why. It was a needed reminder. Of what? Of who she is— When not being everything to everyone.
There’s something electric about the secrecy. The hidden ink. The way the lines curve just beneath the bikini line, tracing that place where breath catches and hands hesitate before becoming bold.
The art lives just above the ache.
Just below the place where pressed lips ignite all synapses.
Sometimes caught in the mirror after a shower. The steam rising. A slipped towel. And there it is. Not waving. Not shy. Just watching.
As if to say: “You have layers, my love. You are not just light. You are depth.”
Reminder that Once a dancer, and still moving like one when no one is watching. And sometimes when they are.
A reminder of still being wanted.
Of the wildness that didn’t vanish— Just how to hide beneath church dresses and PTA meetings and polite, presentable smiles.
The creature doesn't need to please others. It belongs to itself.
And now, so does she.
