I find myself pressing my pen onto the paper so hard,
as if to make sure
the ink will never be erased,
the pain will never be forgotten,
this feeling will never fade.
My hand hurts, but I don't stop.
Now every word feels like redemption,
but every sentence
is an act of rebellion.
I can't tell whether I can feel
or I'm numb anymore,
but the scratches I make on this notebook seem real.
They seem permanent,
even if the beating in my chest isn't.
My breath might be polluted,
my blood might be poisoned,
my love might be molding,
but my words,
they're always true.
And that's how I know I'm alive.