Vicky Birks, Ink
‘Biscuit?’ he enquires, in his thick European accent,
He thrusts the packet in my face,
I glance at the Tesco Value Custard Creams,
He’s already scoffed four, they’re not going to waste;
I respectably decline, the thought turning my stomach.
Brushing the crumbs from his mouth, he snaps on a pair of gloves,
A smooth reggae beat sounds from the speakers,
Dulling the sound of the profession he loves,
My teeth clench and my muscles tense, preparing myself for impact.
The needle breaks the skin, expelling droplets of pink,
Colour onto my upper dermis which is quickly followed by blood,
And I’m fighting the urge to dive for the sink,
Whilst the steady beat resonates in my head.
Flip flops weren’t the best choice of footwear,
As i attempt to avoid the onlookers perplexed by my limp,
Subtlety, clearly, was not my suit as passersby begin to stare,
It was all flip and no flop as the rubber contraption attempted to cling on.
But, I drag my swollen, aching foot along with pride,
As pain, along with £60 pounds, is part of this lifetime guarantee;
I ignore the boys behind me, imitating my silly walk,
Because my tattoo, is a cling-film wrapped present and a present just for me.