What Writing Feels Like

Ink pours out first

Turning your skin a black 

That only you can see.

And the words that swirl out

End up accidently etched

In the deep recesses of your inward life.

They spread malignantly

With soft tenterhooks,

Silent like the memories that have come

With their pitch forks to 

Tear you apart,

Until

You’re reaching out to them

With all that you’ve got 

To bring them all back inside 

Where they belong.

But now, they’ve seen the light

They’ve created stains. 

And all your reaching is doing is

Prying open your ribcage till you’ve

Moved into light,

Finding yourself in guilty harmony 

With them.
~Ritika

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