I will write in the darkness

with blood dripping

from the wound I didn’t

know existed —

forced open, or perhaps,

never stopped bleeding at all.

I will pour the poisoned

scarlet ink into the little

perfect paper until all

is filled of colors and words

and tears and dreams

and pain.

I will let the pen puncture

the paper, the way

it all punctures

innocent hearts, the way

it gashes simplicity

with hopeless dreams.

I will let the words spill

on pages after pages

until there wouldn’t be any more

pain and fears and tears

reflected in every word

but the words

and words alone.




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