slides smoothly across my skin,
down my spine,
and each line slices deep in my mind.
Weather drawings by lovers lost deserted in desk drawers.
My figure is faded on the yellowed pages
but in the flesh the lines are fresh and young.
I bite my tongue-
the cool pen both tickles and burns.
Pen in ink, ink onto skin-
a new pattern emerges
and it all sinks right in,
into blood, veins to heart...
I'm no longer the muse, I'm no longer the art.
Just something to use.