Blowout

The bird was meant to be sharp,

a black stroke against the blue-white

veins of my wrist.

Fifty dollars in a shop that smelled

like floor cleaner and burnt hair.

Now, under the fluorescent buzz

of the laundromat, I see the ink

has finally given up.

The wing is bleeding into the skin,

a dark, permanent smudge

like a bruise that refuses to heal.

It’s not art anymore.

It’s just a leak.