My words are scared of sound. It makes them fear the outside world. It makes them fear what questions and assumptions will turn them in to. So instead, they drown the world out in to a sheet and escape in to its blank pages.

My words only find their spines when they’re directed towards a reflection as if they know their rule only reigns in a straight line and power comes from the echo that deafens the room.

I write because my spoken words don’t situate the fire burning its way out of me.

I write because you won’t understand my phrases unless they come in a paragraph. I write to avoid confusion of the person I am and the stranger you make me out to be. The confusion comes from the thought that what I scribble in to everything I can get my hands on is nothing but fiction, a creation from my most vivid imagination. The confusion comes from the assumption that my pen dips in to ink and not blood.

My blood.
My soul.

I write because I’m desperate to be seen past the shell I put front. Being discovered has lost its appeal yet I wish you could find me; find me beyond my guards and all the walls I’ve put up, find me in the shade of my false confidence, find me where you’re sure I won’t be for that is exactly where I’ll chose as my hideaway, sheltered underneath all my paragraphs and the litter of paper that has taken so long to compose one perfect goodbye.

I’ll be where you left me. The same place you’ve found me countless times before, for I have a stagnant heart that beats ink and leaks masterpieces on a shroud paper that will be forgotten on a far corner. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~could this make a perfect goodbye?