Ink

I become stone under the sharpened chisel
My ribcage rattles
beneath the artist’s rendition
of the tree of life:
a glyph left behind
by an ancient tribe
from a forgotten time
high on a canyon wall
etched hauntingly into the rock.

Electromagnetic pulses
drag the dagger down sharply
Metal pierces living parchment
tickling my fancy
lulling me to sleep
as the ink digs deep
defiling the flesh
forcing dark imperfections
into the dermis.

As my perfect skin tries to deny
the blemish I desire
black latex hands swab at
traces of rejected stain
bleeding from a thousand open lesions
and I lay perfectly still
as the needle licks at the tincture
corrupting the once pure
now forever marked.