Tattoo cream. The smell of it has left a stain on my senses. It’s not a particularly fragrant scent. And it’s not particularly noticeable to the unknowing either. But it remains.
Like the smell of fresh cut grass, zippo fluid, or that body spray that symbolizes you, tattoo cream is everlasting.
In parlors, from glances at my wrist, and whenever I hear that fucking song, tattoo cream enters into a thought bubble and fills my blood stream.
BLONDE ON BLONDE 