I don’t want to lose myself in my thoughts for I have been there too long. I have seen and moderately felt what roams in the dark cave constructed by my fleeting deliberations, neither coping nor moving from the trap that it truly was. So I chose to write.

I wrote it all on paper, on the clicking pads of my computer, on the tiny keyboards of my phone, on the tissue paper that came with the drink I ordered in a bar, on the walls of my home yet it was never enough. Writing on things that do not breathe or react is trivial, at least for me; I could not know how much of a difference my words made, how much I affected the world. Thus I chose to write on a heart.

Why not?

It beat. It was alive. It was vital therefore it would not be ignored.

So I set out to find my perfect writing pad, my specimen, the thing that would carry the impression I chose to lay down. My only oversight was not realizing there could be one as needing and wanting as I, looking for the same sample to leave a mark on.

Deception is easily learned, like how to appear trust worthy, how to make people laugh, how to make them feel special and seeming quite in love. But where I thought myself proficient, you were truly the one with the skills; and where I though myself the marauder, you thought me I was nothing but the pray. You danced with me using my own melody, letting me have a taste of control but drinking away the very last of my resolve; waiting with the patience I could never learn to open myself to you.

I live now with your art scribbled on my heart with the ink that I could only get from you.