I'm intoxicated inside this tragedy, it weighs in my palms.
paints something timid and thick like a calligraphy pen.
I try to write the words that keep me sane and try to rationalize falling in love again.
but can I carry the weight?
will my palms be able to hold onto both the pen and still maintain the penmanship or is this dynamic too graphic too unrelenting and messy?
who will I become when the ink dries?
will I smudge this pain onto the mouths of others?
or will my silence be enough of a concealer- or will my silence be but a fashion accessory that I wear on my wrist.
this fear it has no use for me anymore it is just taking up space now.
I must find something to make it all worth it something that looks a bit more pretty.
do I continue to carry this with me when it is all I have ever known?
or do I learn to let it go?
so I write until the pen runs out of ink and I seem to run out of stories.
maybe I'll make it out in one piece or maybe I will make a piece out of it.
either way this is where the fear stops.
somewhere between lost earrings and the stain of alcohol the next morning- I have found something.
It's stuck behind my snaggle tooth and beside the lump in my throat.
it's called salvation it's called ambition it's a misnomer that spells out the sound of my own voice I will spill myself as ink spills on paper and I will unfold, over and over again.
I will make more than a story out of this malice.
i got a calligraphy pen for christmas and I just used it to write this, transferring to the interweb so it is immortalized (and easier to edit).