girl with the tattoo face

she had to have been angry when she went to the tattoo parlor to get her face tattooed over with a spiderweb.
i watch her dance to blue-grass, limping slightly with one leg of flesh and one prosthetic. she is in her mid-twenties, and even under all that blue ink you can tell she is pretty.
she leans back into me as if nodding out on heroin. she is the perfect piece of performance art; a tattoo mask, one leg missing, a childlike tangle of brown hair clasped in a ponytail and slowly coming undone. she twists and turns, rolling her body vertically through the crowd with sudden jerky movements, stopping now and then to go limp on a strangers shoulder. her narrow frame is covered with the thin worn-out cotton of an old t-shirt and she reeks of patchouli. she is a street kid, a train hopper, an anarchist, a runaway, a junky, a modern day gypsy. the crowd keeps one eye on her and one eye on the band, gently placing their hands on her shoulder blades and pushing her upright when she invades their space.
someone leans over to me and shouts above the noise, "i think she's fucking with me."
(my response: her face has been completely tattooed over. she only has one leg. she's fucking with everyone).