Ink-on-Paper

You and I have exactly the same set of words. But I know why you are able to paint them so much better than me. Because you crush your emotions inside the cavities of your letters. You have endured far too much than I could possibly imagine myself to do. I merely write. You vomit, you bleed, you sweat, you ejaculate, you lactate, You piss, you excrete. You don’t attempt to hide all the ugliness under the guile of saccharine words. Some people hate you for it. Not everyone likes to read about the nakedness of humanity. Some of us want the stories of puppies and fairy tales. You instead peel your skin and show your bones. For them to agnize that under all our inferiority and superiority complexes, we are all the same, after all. ...

Before I press the nib, to the texture of a vintage paper, I think about you. I let your words chime, in the darkness of my hollow existence, I let your cravings rise up, to the surface of my skin. I let myself crumble down, under the weight of your impossible truth. A thousand capillaries bursting in my head. I let myself cry in your agony. Then I bleed; on your behalf. ...