I drew you on my leg when I was 16
Hesitant lines with pressure and purloined ink
The stall door was closed and I had gotten tired
Of making that S symbol that skateboarders do
So I took the pen, pulled down my pants and drew
Bic made me do it, I knew that would be my first regret
Open ears listening for the footsteps of a student
Flush, wash my hand, leave the blood-tipped pen behind
You lingered along my thigh, the ink fading over the years
But I never forgot the shame I felt. That shame mutated.
It became guilt. Resentment. Depression. Anger. Lies.
Why should it matter? I’m still sitting in that stall, shorts
Touching seat, hoping that no one will see me through
The gaps between the door and the wall
The only time I see you is when I forget that you’re there
I put on a pair of shorts that is maybe an inch too high
Or a shirt that I used to wear that now I’m too fat for
I see the ink poking out, a reminder to set an alarm
For the time where I can feel like less of an idiot
I hope when I get older, I will see you as a memorial
A sign of how foolish I was with self-hatred, cowardice
Obsession, anxiety, but I feel that you, my homemade tattoo
Will be an eulogy written into my skin, a warning that I never heard
You do not truly change, you just fade away until you become an
Outdated design that no one recognizes anymore or cares to decipher
Poetry Overdose 