D.A.R.E

(breathe)
It’s what she told me, with the scratching of her pencil.
(breathe)
In running red rivers of ebony India ink:
if you inject it intravenously, would you bleed black ink?
(breathe)
He said cigarettes are bad for you; smoke crack.
I’d rather shoot up in India ink:
Perhaps words would form under my skin,
But visible.
(see, they already do: they push and shove and jostle each-other under the restrictive barrier of my skin, aching to be free, and I can’t let them loose. Society frowns upon bleeding intentionally)
See, but visible.
Like that one girl. In that one book. Where she had flowers tattooed on her arms and they bloomed and died with her moods. But I would have words, thoughts, running like tracks and tarot-card lies up my arms.
(breathe)
She told me, in the shake of her head, she was right and I was wrong, why can’t I admit it?
(I’d tell her but it would go to her head, it’s not that she’s right it’s that I don’t want to do something she dislikes)
(breathe)
!
He said cigarettes are bad for you.
That’s why I shoot up
in India ink.