Sticky needles and ink points
to a glorified ex
'It's treasured,' they promise
and they carve their words into my skin.

I can taste their syllables
eh, ee, I, O, U, why -
filtered through fiberglass tastebuds -
that same old flavored narcissism.

I wear my pessimism on my sleeve,
and I decorate my skin.
Displaying only a black outline,
begging somebody to fill me in.