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these days my skin refuses to bleed words on paper; I've lost a battle against my own craft.
the ink is sealed shut within my veins—these thoughts have bloated my belly and I am, well, I am a blank parchment.
thou shall not spill us on this piece of paper, thou shall remain restless. are these voices I hear? voices of words I never knew could speak.
we speak, we haunt, we refuse to bleed. and I try to draw magic into the silent air but the sound escapes into a void of nothingness. and I try again to fill all these gaps I built over the years but the lingering memory stays near.
choke on your own art, succumb to doom and despair. these beings are frozen, this eternal silence bewitches my mind into thinking of the end.
do it. has it turned against me? I can see the tide, I can see myself drowning if only I could—
do it.
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