You had drawn all over my body in penin a hastily found room on the Île St. Louis.
In the morning when we woke, I worried
about the sheets, that we would be charged
for my body's carbon imprints — words
like "tomato" and "thrash" scratched across an arm,
eyes on the dimples of my back, stitches
running the entire length of spine —
all mirrored in slightly smudged blue
on the mattress' grayish white canvas.
In those days I was the monster to your Frankenstein.
Everything was fun and sad at the same time.
The sheets no doubt have been cleaned and the marks
washed away, as nothing, not even you, was permanent.
And now I am my own monster, left to torment
and be so without you. And I see why people get tattoos,
become their own experiments, how in the end
only your own skin is yours to keep.