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.