[ WP ] In a world where everyone has multiple tattoos , you do not have any . At all . Tell me why .

Permanence. Ink writhing across their necks and down their backs in some attempt to hold onto something. A patchwork beneath their skin, smooth to the touch. 
 
 On the train, they keep their distance, creating a halo of space around me even though it means cramming into one another. A man's spotted wrist snaps away when my arm brushes against him. 
 
 Sometimes, when they're distracted, they do n't see me. I run a finger across cosmic necks in crowds, steal caresses from arms laced with swirls and tribal marks. 
 
 The masseuse only rubs me lightly, her lips hiding a cringe. `` No oil,'' I say, even though it is n't warm. 
 
 Etched on her knuckles are black rings, and her fingers remind me of trees cut in half. They knead and dig into my own gnarled skin, red and angry and coiled, closer to bark than flesh. 
 
 I know I disgust her, but the sensation of human touch... 
 
 `` It will feel better with the oil,'' she says. 
 
 `` No oil,'' I say, even though it is n't warm.
