it was crimson
as my bludgeoned futures
that indelibly inked tattoo
my number
screaming neon epitaph
on the chiseled granite terminus
of membership in polite society.
I scrubbed and dermabraded
bleaching pigment from all skin
in scalding ablutions
I slough off
flawed integument
failed beneficent intentions
peel back scarred gaping flesh
until I stand
grisly and gristled
stripped to creaking bones.
I dress myself in mucilage and plaster
draped in gauzy discombobulation
soak in healing balms
oils of mystical rejuvenation
secreted by Panacea
in deep atrial chambers.
having grown new skin
darkened, disfigured
thick and tough
I dip twisted toes
in edifying milieu
crumple, chagrined
at that shoulder-tap
“aren’t you the one
with that tattoo
the ginormous scarlet F?”
Blood Into Ink 