Tattoos are Hard

I know I'm passing out when my vision starts disappearing

Static encroaching on my eyes, tense and pulling, my focus fails but never blurs

Instead, it flicks without my permission, from aching needle to focused eyes to dull burgundy of the tattoo chair

And when I ask her for a minute I'm not actually sure I can hear her response, but her face tells the story of her concern, those blue-green eyes wide

A blink, and there's an opened juice box in my hand, though I identify it more by touch than sight, so small is my frame of vision now

And I sip, and we chatter aimless, and though my hearing remains distant and muffled, my vision returns

And the buzz of her tattoo gun starts up

And she presses it to my leg

And the ink flows into my skin once again, to create a permanent image