When I cry, I cry ink.
Droplets of black on a white canvas;
Sometimes blue, sometimes smooth,
Or thick, or thin and dying,
Sputtering like the end of a candlewick.
My blood, too, is ink.
Words tumble out with every
Beat of my heart: joy, pain, loss, gain.
They richochet through my veins,
Until I'm so full, I burst,
Black and blue gushing out of my hands,
Dribbling from my fingertips.
I am ink. I am all words,
Locked here together.
When I am gone, there will be words.
Dry, leafy, brittle words,
Like old blood, or neglected tears.
--
Thank you for reading. If you enjoyed this poem, please leave a heart, and be sure to check out more of my work at my author profile! Find a list of my published short fiction by clicking here.
About the Creator
Crysta Coburn
Crysta K. Coburn has been writing award-winning stories for most of her life. She is a journalist, fiction writer, poet, playwright, editor, podcaster, and occasional lyricist. She co-hosts the popular paranormal podcast Haunted Mitten.
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Comments (1)
I thought it was just me. ✒️