Ink runs across a page -
the words can’t be taken back.
But that’s okay. I wrote them to stay.
Lines run into each other,
trying to reach the end.
The ink spreads across the page.
I am that ink that bleeds from my paperwhite skin,
the ink that wells up and stains me,
cutting tattoos into my heart.
I am a closed book that opens for few
but contains an ocean of thought and heart;
I often drown in myself.
Each chapter of it is a different color,
a different language that I’ve learned.
Some end and other endure, but they’re all there.
I am a writer who has surrendered
to a life of improbable crusades,
and I bleed to show the world light and dark.
I am a shattered heart,
a whole mind, and a land of
dreams I often ignore.
I am a paradox, an empty page
with a million words,
a white canvas stained with black ink.
My words are quiet shouts
that echo in a dead room.
I am lost in myself.
I don’t know what I am,
because a dictionary isn’t as
straightforward as one would think.
I turn my pages, rewriting myself
so others can understand
the mess of words that is me.
And for the paradox, the story starts
just as the writing is done.
I am the last line.