why do we keep writing for people who couldn't give one thought that we are spilling words for them?
dipping our fingers into ink which aches and can only write so much until the mind breaks
a silhouette of someone now who was once as tangible as the pen grasped so tightly,
yet the only thing we are now hugging are our knees to our chest to soothe this new empty space
and the words keep flowing and flowing like a bad paper cut, so small yet so fragile to the touch
blood ebbing and bubbling and spilling over, only to heal and reopen and begin again
we all have that one person, who we are so tired of writing about, and vow to stop, but how else would we cope?