Written on the Body

I have always been intrigued by the idea of the body as a text. How memories, actions, accidents, are reflected and translated by skin. Through scars, through body modification, through wrinkles and blemishes. How a sleepless night inscribes itself beneath your eyelids, how joy and sorrow are carved along the brow, the lips, the corners of the eye.

I've entertained the notion of having script tattooed all over my body. But what would it say? I am both aesthetically and erotically invested in the idea of language written upon my skin. The way desire is transmitted in the idle tracings over fingertips across my back, in the crook of my elbow, the palms of my hands. Heat pressed hard into my cheekbones, firm against my thigh, cradled softly and possessively along the sharp line of my jaw. There are certain types of touch that will stop my heart, steal my breath, and leave me dizzy and wanting.

I like the idea of Henna. Markings that are beautiful because they are temporary. The idea of messages being painted along the dark, secret places of my body that are only shown in moments of intimacy. Brands of desire in red, brown, and black. Or paint, something that smudges and smears as the body grows damp and hot with sweat. Gold, silver, bronze -- liquid metal that grows illegible, an analog to the loss of control and logic.

Not to mention, I like the way words look.