She’s a writer.
She’s doing time, handcuffed in the dead of night,
locked up in prison with just the lonely voices of her mind.
And the demons of her past are wardens,
floating in corridors, keeping her in sleep deprived misery.
She’s a writer.
Every word she scrawls is a letter to her broken heart,
because with all due respect, it is an idiot.
It falls for the wrong people, it longs for the wrong places.
It shatters and she is forced to resuscitate it daily.
She’s a writer.
She didn’t choose it, every poem and story is a risk.
Work is accomplished by the light of constellations
and ink is just the blood of her soul pouring out on a page.
She is brave, in one of the quietest possible ways.
She’s a writer.
And that’s how she stays alive.