'Skin' a poem

Bent over I hang onto the wall, 

you pierce me with a needle that is none too small. 

Gritted teeth and weakening arms, 
you handle me with care no need for alarm.

Strong are you but gentle in touch, pain before pleasure,
I've never known so much.  

One hand holds, the other is the artist,
naked my skin on which you are bold.

Never have I felt this spin that I’m in, 
a secret sensation about to begin. 

Safe in these hands, ink a dark hue, 
embedded for eternity my tattoo.