Writer’s Blood

I went fluttering through hallways,

not having a sense of where I was

or where I was meant to be.

But I was content with that.

Age buried into my bones,

and soon I was seeping with regret and

something dying.

I had jet lignite blood in an ivory body,

something pages of literature proved an oxymoron.

Now I crawl,

if I move at all.

The walls of the hall

are crashing down,


hurling bricks and winds

that I cannot shield from.

They cut me open: jackknives.

Ivory flesh pulled apart

as if a demons’ nails are piercing my palms

or scratching, digging.

And black leaks out of my veins

that only grow

the more I bleed.

White pages in a black cover: a book.

Is that what we all are?

Words we’ll only ever regret painted in black ink

on white pages,

shielded by something dark, heavy, and

made of a tree?

I carry this cross of mine

until I bleed it all out.

Every drop of ink in my body will flow

and I will be free

until I am bound

by strings in a book.

And then I’ll be read

over and over again.

The spine of the book will disintegrate,

as must we all in tragedies.

Readers’ hungry need to escape will wear out my bones

and page by page, I will disappear

into the open sky,

pages fluttering in the wind.

I won’t ever know where I am or where I’m meant to be,

but I’ll be stamped with my words,

my history,

and I will be free.


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