he told me to do what i did best, to stain pages with ink, to give chances to my words, to write as if i had never ceased to write for a year, after my creativity burst because i was enveloped in a world of warmth and his skin.
the only art i created was in chaos and newfound feelings of love, art was only there when i began with infatuations, and when the blinds were shut to block out the light of love.
i wouldn't know when was the next time i could spew out words, forming sentences that rolled off fingers and into my tongue, sending shivers of emotion down the spine i bend forward in times of burning fires, flames from peoples mouths sending your head into sparks and melting my being. trying to shield myself from the ashes of others, sticking onto my skin, clinging on. ashes of rumors and past words, ashes of mistrust and judgement, ashes of the thoughts people had when the saw me for the first time.
there was one thing that stopped the pain that caused writing to happen, and it was consistency with you.