Poison Ink,

running down my inner thigh
from pen to mind
to hand to heart,
transcription of an ancient eye.

Poison ink, flowing from my newfound breasts,
filling them with future cancer
compelling those whose pens run dry
to come to me for messy answers.
(Satisfaction now, Living death later.)
Poison ink, infecting what I really think.
From page to eye, to a mouth that sighs,
Poison Ink, running down my inner thigh.

This Way............................................................That Way