Strangeness of this skin bothered her and the art on it. Carved not by needles but blades, those bleeding tattoos stung along with the stories embedded in them. Memories of not long ago, she had to reminisce.
If not sooner then later, those bleeding tattoos will mature into the not-bleeding-anymore-silver scars and shine with screaming stories, she smiled to the thought of healing. Unaware of the hand that held the blade. Unaware, that hand would never rest. Unaware, that hand would carve even after there’s no place left to draw or carve.