Ink

Macrophages filled with ink.

They say that science tends to destroy the beauty

But maintained is the

aesthetic

young blood

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

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