i write in ink of blood

a nightmare is written on my wrists,

written in ink of blood,

in the s p a c e s of my ribcage

spiraling around and around

tightening

before it

swirls across my thighs.

the inner monsters,

the inner demons,

run rampant

through my thoughts and fingers,

driving me towards

the bladed pen

just

one

more

time,

to write out my pain

on my canvas.

never mind

that i hurt

the ones

closet to me as well.

never mind

that they

know when

i write,

when i bleed

out my

imperfections and tears

that i cannot cry,

when i carve

my faults

into the fault lines

already broken

in the trembling crevices

of my spine,

that's when i feel strong.

isn't it funny?

the times i'm weakest

are the times i'm strongest.

but that's the price

i pay

to write.

[Author's note: this is a rewrite of a poem from my early days. it does not reflect how i am now.]