I don't like these tattoos.

There is a double meaning for everything. I'm thinking six. There was once a discussion about "interpretation" and it's true that the fires of minds are of different hues and directions. Long directions. Long shots.

The "second" one does NOT have to be sharp like knives, it can be sharp like a brain. Or maybe not sharp at all. The second - dull.(Three meanings) Or it could not be tangible but emotive. A doubly emotive meaning. Or it could be irrational, spacial. Why must it always be sharp: Witty, hurtful, powerful. Could a thought be doubly-yeasty? (I thought of bread rising twice)

I know a girl who's got tattoos everywhere. Everywhere. She put them on her body. She put them on the light encasement of her soul. On her walls.
Nothing absorbed though - perhaps only two layers. They aren't images either. They are words. Singular words They are her name over and over and over again. Her name as she wants it to be.
She is faceless with words that are singular meaningless descriptors. It is words the define the eyes, fake lines drawn by someone, often herself. What is the cause of the lost girl so defined that she doesn't know who she is. Really. She isn't even a dictionary. Just a compendium.
And she eats words too. She eats to earn them. She eats them because perhaps ingestion is the way to salvation. And it is so that the one thing she seeks is more words.

Perhaps she seeks to be an art piece - but she feels it will be a presentation of meaning and experience- and it is sad that we the interpretors will only see it as her misunderstanding. She's aesthetic word art. And she will instead be a mantled doll - an experience for all to come: That to be so extensively labelized, ennumered - especially when you tattoo yourself - is not compensation for simply being.

The words are stiff and encompassing and so she operates within their confines. They've replaced her bones and to tear them down would mean: she is literally skin, and innards. And then what? What are we to do with skin like this? Bones like these? And eyes that are only tattooed and cannot frankly see?


A coded message:
To Hubris Egglebert:
Experiment number two to be conducted with vastly different results from that time - that obliterating day when tele-communication made up for hugs, teas, probably a liquored beverage and a slap across my over zealous face. Why? Because for one time. One time. One Time. One time. one time.
This Time.
I will win.
I'll save my inability to articulate for the people who love me best. Because those are better thoughts saved for better days. Saved for more experience. Because what is to be gained from the straightforward answer: The single line of thought. And I owe that to people who never expanded upon my own words - but for whom I paid that favour ten fold. I owe them nothing.