If a pen should stutter,
my words are weak.
Leaking ink and broken words
leave my hands as red as guilt,
and I am not innocent.
Flushed cheeks and a stained tongue,
there is little I can hide.
But maybe if you slice me open,
there is more to see inside;
Reach around and find my chest,
but know it holds more salt water
than your desired treasure.
I do hope what few jewels I have
Bring you pleasure.