why does this ink look like a bloodstain?
it sings like writing on the wall.
it stings like the mirror i shattered
and the darkness i spilled and i splattered.

why does this page allow its face
to be struck, scarred, mangled, and marked?
these words tear themselves apart at the seams
eviscerate themselves to understand what they mean.

why does this poet stretch her jaw ‘til it breaks
just to show the world what’s inside?
she should hide. she should hide!
but the price of her pride
is to endlessly, manically 𝒎𝒂𝒌𝒆.