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
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,
and I will be free.