Her face was tainted with blotches
of black and blue, but these were not
bruises... No, they were simply ink—
ink that stained her cheeks, ink that stained
her heart, ink that was pumped through her
veins by her heart; and while she might've
appeared to have bruises on her
face, these ink stains hurt in quite a
different way than bruises might
have hurt. They were the result of
torture that she had inflicted
upon herself through nothing but
writing. Her pen could pierce her chest
or slash her cheeks multiple times
and still she would bleed only ink;
however, there seemed to be a
never-ending supply of it,
so she'd never quite bleed to death.
YOU ARE READING
Scintillation ✓
PoetryThis is a collection of poetry and prose about stars, love and the like. It is a glimpse inside my mind and a full view of my soul. My thoughts are like celestial dust: quite useless on their own, but once they come together, create a star that give...
