blood & ink

some things are ink

some things are blood 

some things are a pool of ink & blood 

blood is found with blood

ink should be with ink 

in their own vessels; they do not mix. 

but did we not? 

did we not pool together? 

did we not suddenly turn viscous

and fill the shape of our container? 

your black eyes looked deep into mine

when you were taking my blood.

you told me it tasted good. 

a kind, curious evil.

flesh is the only thing on my mind

skin, bones, arms, legs

and how they tighten up, how they respirate.

you showed me all of your tattoos 

and the way they could dance 

i love how iodine trickles down a beaker of water 

dancing into tendrils, ringlets, appendages 

breathing. kindly asking you not to stir

but curiously stare.

you told me that ink and blood shouldn’t mix.

i don’t think i’d be as angry 

if you hadn’t wasted so much breath 

saying

the swirl was beautiful

and would grow more beautiful 

as you stir 

again, again, again 

what is left to say? can you blame me? am i selfish?

yes. yes. yes. selfishly,

i want to give more water 

i want to light more fires

i want to trickle all the way down

i want to coalesce, i want to coagulate

i want to give more blood. i want to draw more ink. 

the experiment suddenly turned inconclusive:  

did you dig the knife

just to see the scar?

my new tattoo is a puddle of blood and ink in plastic.

it’s dripping wet

i don’t feel the pain yet.