Cut open my finger tips and no blood will run. Just the words that have been trapped at the surface of my skin for years. The words of trauma and anxiety. The sentences of my ancestors and the words in Spanish that I cannot spell or speak but somehow know. The paragraphs of my intellect and my desires for growth and exploration. My stories of these people whom without I'd have no love to let flow. The novels. That without I'd be incomplete. Just waiting to feel fulfillment because I'd never know I could create it. Cut open my fingertips and no blood will run.