sometimes i just feel like the words clot in my veins and the ink is spilled on my soul and my heart is ripped like the pages of my favorite notebook. my lips are the cracked leather cover from too many forced smiles and the light in my eyes is only the artificial light bulb i use at 3am so i can see what i'm writing. my verses are as repetitive as my endless reassurances, condolences, apologies. mother, i have nothing to be sorry for. my limbs are stiff like the spines of all those bound books i asked for for christmas, sitting somewhere in my room as a heap. i said i wanted to be a writer; i did not want to become my writing.