Austin, Texas. A blur of double whiskeys, Friday Night Lights references, shaggy bartenders with polite drawls. Graffiti lit the path of “up and coming” street, shadows of construction cranes threatening to bring us down from our adrenaline high.

Over tacos, it was decided. Our deepest loves would be painted on our bodies, Texas forever. We mosied up the steps of a quiet, clean building. It kept its graffiti on the inside.

I felt the numbers on my skin before they were sealed. I felt kind eyes on me, envisioning his canvas. Paul.

Vulnerable, I felt the gun pierce my skin. Paul put pen to paper. The value of the numbers increased as they were polished and dabbed. I was new. I was more myself than before, dear reader. I was a canvas.


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