i would bleed ink

a poem i've written for an open mic!


1. i would bleed ink

I love pen and ink but nothing seems to make the words I write come to life.
They don’t breathe the same way they do when they’re on my tongue,
dancing on my taste buds,
tinging the pink with dropped Ts and the heritage in my bones.
The cracking of history that goes into the crafting
of word upon word that emerge from somewhere deep in my chest,
not where my heart is, but the centre of my ribcage,
protected but easily punctured if you kick me hard enough.
I’ll probably bleed black and blue, and pen casings
would form where the fractures are.
I am a living, breathing story that lives and breathes stories
with worlds and characters with worlds in their heads and it continues endlessly.

I wanted to write an epic novel about a girl who kills herself
just to release the story inside of her;
but then I realised that it’d be the story of every writer who had ever existed.
We kill and kill and kill ourselves over and over
in order to make these amazing things, leaving a part of our souls in each thing –
in which case every single one of my poems would be a horcrux.
But, in all seriousness, the idea that writing something will let me live on,
embellished on paper long after I’ve finished decomposing,
makes the killing that little bit easier.
Who needs lungs if your breath is in a character’s dialogue?
I don’t require joints if it means my story can crack its knuckles
and stretch itself further than I could ever go.
I don’t need to tap my fingers to mimic its heartbeat anymore.

I love pen and ink because it puts down the base for
a living, breathing story, and then my voice can set it free. 

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