here's a story of where these marks came from
scribbled here by hometown pens
upon our mirrored cheeks
laid to rest in permanence: impermanence
spared by pride: by iron and oil
sealed with blood, and ink, and pain:
my familiars, just a tattoo gun away.

interesting phrase:
self-excommunication. 
self-emancipation
self-immolation

color me synonymous, helium.

open me and take only what you need
just like it's been done before
spare me your sympathy
when you leave me, room-temperature
writhing at the door. 

'there's naught worse but when somebody opens you up, takes a page, and leaves. except when you go to take it back -- knocking on their door in the middle of the night in your housecoat, slippers, and cigarettes -- to which they reply, in succession "no thanks, I didn't want more than this" before slamming the door in your face.

how can you expect to cherry pick the good parts of someone, then turn around and wonder why they come crawling back to you, reaching, desperate, breathless, and manic
as if they were incomplete, left that way with the click of a door latch. how can you fail to appreciate the quiet irony of this?'

hold me but don't touch me: repeat until dead.