Macrophages filled with ink.
They say that science tends to destroy the beauty
But maintained is the
immortalization of a moment.
And how nice.
They are the prettiest scars I could have
In an era when self-flagellation is so passe
When the moon cycles through
Through the sicknesses of the seasons
And the bad humor fills me up
And like a consumptive maiden
I’m begging to be bled