I pictured getting a tattoo as the dreary night shook

A verse about art and dying, from Lady Lazarus and such

The needle piercing as the ink spread felt as real as anything could

So I woke up, obsessed with the idea of getting one

It’s the permanence of the act that put me off

To be marked, for my eternity, in anything other than your love

Seems so tragic, so facile, so terribly dull

I carry your mark, blessed and cursed

Your artistry marks every vessel of my blood

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