I can't get through any other way.
My last pen running out of ink is a thousand times worse
than my throat being too hoarse to scream,
or duct tape plastered over my lips.
Because asking "What?" with my voice never gave me a real answer.
Which should be expected, I guess, because "What?" is not a real question.
I do it to ask myself if I am wrong.
I do it to hug myself even if I am.
Or if I have been wronged,
and I need to accept insincere or
unsaid apologies.
I write because the only place I really feel welcome,
Is in between ink and paper.
You'll find me there,
Writing.