Folds of purple satin cloth,
The lancet from out of darkness,
Creaking stairs choke on themselves,
begging for attention, I cannot give.
The pen drips ink like maddening faucets,
A rope hangs from where I last tried,
Leonard and Vita bicker for my heart,
pulling me into pieces, left on the page.
I am no longer a person,
Instead, a writer.