I have shredded my body like paper into cathartic phrases fashioned out of fragments of my heart. Claimed to be the strongest muscle in the body,
I find myself weak in the knees, as the blood flows into the fountain of my pen. Scribbling across lined sheets, I remind myself that most art doesn't follow the straight and narrow path, more like outliers on a graph.
I am weak, when it comes to alliteration, metaphors firing off synapses, there is no weapon stronger than a well placed period or the last word in a sentence. Give me power, and I will give you heroes seared with scars.
Read if you dare. These words are soaked in blood, raised from flesh and bone, they are marrow, tendon snapping into place. Handle with care.
My heart beats with the turning of the page.