Writing turned my cuts into strokes
The blood that once oozed down my palms
Became pen inks that stained them as well when I'm writing
The blades that I once held
became pens that I use to trace the scars
The words that I wanted to say
Were spilled down on my paper
And I felt free.
Free that I can say what I want to say
Free from the cage that I was in
Free from the bandages that were stopping me from telling anyone
Writing took a new person out of me
And that new person
is a writer who writes for the sake of living
That writer is me.
-eris'
YOU ARE READING
Scintilla
Poetrysomething you might want to read when you're too drunk in love you don't remember what being sober feels like
