The quill


Not into a bottle of ink

But into a ragged wound

On the inside of my wrist

Where dark blood pools

I write

Not with ink

Not with just the creativity and imagination of my mind

But with my blood

From my pain

With my suffering, self inflicted and life inflicted

I don't write

For attention

For money

For fame

I write

Because I have to

Because if I don't

These things will pool up inside me

Drowning my soul

Fill me to bursting

Poison my heart

Cause me to explode beyond myself

My ragged wrist

The ribbons of my soul

The hole of my heart

Are testimony

That I kill myself by living

But I would be worse off if I did not write

Hard to believe

With the shape I'm in

But it is true

Without it

Not just I would be dead

But others, these are things that violently explode, not implode

But with my only outlet

I implode

Hurt only myself

Not others

Which is how it should be

No others deserve my pain

Blood for ink