You had drawn all over my body in pen

in 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.