It’s empty stares all over again. Your hollow eyes take leave as the breaking dots of every word in every dictionary chain themselves to your neck, and you caress the markings because masochism is creativity. So you plead to your ears: “anything that doesn’t wreck me,” and your ears, sensitive and selective, cast your words away.
What is your destination? What are you left with?
Weights of words that nestle themselves on your left shoulder, taking refuge in the back of your neck, straining every last nerve with the possibility of an idea, or at least an ending.
The words string themselves to your hair, adorning your face with every little failure at eloquence, or just basic wording.
The letters, the weld themselves to your skin, reiterating every thought of self-doubt that takes the midnight train to your mind with black circles and favourite lyrics as side-notes.
Writing is a parade of self-mockery you’re the stunt-double in.
Writing is the bruises you photograph for memory.
Writing is your skin inside out.