i live in a world
of sheets littered with
pen marks, used tissues and sweat

mind you, the pen marks are black
because i only write in
black ink, blue is too foolish,
if that makes sense,
although i'm quite certain
that it doesn't

i lay my head on torn
out pieces of poems, better
left unfinished
and i breathe deep
mostly because i love the
smell of worn paper
and a little because i
don't want these words
to feel unloved

i'm a writer who knows
her mediums better than
she knows her self