I pried out my own skin wide open with needles dipped in cheap india ink; I dabbed at the black mixed with red staining my fingers. Do I do this for the pain, or to get the poison trickling in to my skin, to my veins? A symbol, an alphabet. Vast meanings that I tried to bestow upon them hours later really means nothing at all.
There's the cause and the effect, which really goes both ways. The pain for the gain of the blurred out ink under my skin, and the gain for the pain of the sharpness prickling
my ankles, both legs bare the stain of alcohol tinged nights. The skin beneath my eyelids a darkened haze; but the tattoo still burns needle-sharp against it all.