i wrote a poem.

it began with staining my fingertips
by dragging them on your skin, and hoping,
they'd reach your soul, your heart
(whatever the hell that connects me to you).
and it ended with me confessing a love,
so broken and terrible and perfect,
in a metaphor of words and ink and me.
and it had me thinking that, that wouldn't be right,
because my words cant amount,
and my hearts threatening to puncture a rib or two.

i wrote a poem that wasnt honest.
(there isnt enough ink in the world).

9/1/12

A/N: An impulse sequel to 'Sink Skin Deep'