“You do realize you don’t have to keep doing this, you know.”

She knows. Of course, she knows. But there is too much. She cannot stop. She cannot stop until everything is out.

Even if it hurts. Even if it’s trash. Even if no one reads or listens. Even if it makes no sense. Even if it’s all lies. Even if it’s all true. Even if the truth is a lie. Even if the lie is a truth. Even if it is a paradox in and of itself.
Even so.

She writes until she bleeds. The pen is connected to her veins. The ink, her blood. The words, her thoughts.
Dark

Flowing

Bleeding

Spilling

“You could share the pen, you know.”

She knows. But whoever holds the pen, changes the words. And when words change, worlds change.

Words have power one wishes not to abuse. Not to use. Not to reveal. Not to keep. Words keep secrets the whole world knows.

But like an open book, one would see the words upon the page, but no one would care enough to read the whole book.