I'm stabbing the paper with the metal nib of the pen
not to curve beautiful words in color and frill
but to pierce the paper with pain and despair,
cross-stitching the past with blood and tear.
The letters fall through the lines in the sand,
emerge glistening from the veins in my hand,
spill over the stave
ring out into the void.
I'm watching to hurt.
I'm dreaming to feel.
I'm speaking to kill.
I'm writing to heal.
Photo by Polina Tankilevitch
Photo by Polina Tankilevitch: https://www.pexels.com/photo/young-woman-with-scars-45191
I ripped myself wide open -
expected to bleed
but the body was all empty
from blood and from pain,
dried up and hollow
despite all the rain.
I wanted to bleed one more time for you,
to cry you the tears that you loved
so many times before,
but nothing was left from the sorrow
and the thick stench of despair.
Is it salvation?
Or is it the end?
Which finally delivered me
from the damnation
of burning desire
and searing pain?
So I'm sitting here stitching
the cuts I drew on my skin.
Collecting the last of my being
to preserve for the next life
for you to hurt me again.