Virgina Woolf is Slipping


Folds of purple satin cloth,

Swallow me.

The lancet from out of darkness,

Taunts me.

Creaking stairs choke on themselves,

begging for attention, I cannot give.


The pen drips ink like maddening faucets,

Unhinging me.

A rope hangs from where I last tried,

Begging me.

Leonard and Vita bicker for my heart,

pulling me into pieces, left on the page.


I am no longer a person,

Instead, a writer.

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