Ink

It's not about the words, but the ink,
Blue and black in vibrant splotches,
Like bruises beneath skin
Victimized by hammering fists.
I want to plunge my arms into inkwells,
Into pools of lightstealing black,
And pour it over my body until I am
Enjambed with the stains of my skin
And only my eyes peer out.
I want to tilt my head towards heaven,
Pen upturned, and binge myself
Until my tongue and teeth are inundated,
Saturated as I am with ink.
I want to fill my belly,
Bloat and grow to bursting,
Paint the world with myself
Until only my ink remains.