I want to write something... Oh, but I'm too afraid I'll bleed. How badly I'd like to put pen to page, but like a pen biting into a struggling scab, it would surely bleed. And all I'd have to hold the pain is a lined white paper stained with different ways to scribble the words 'i love you' without flinching. I want to write, its my 6th attempt at not scrunching up this one line scab of paper round the paremeters of my bin and washing my hands clean. I'm stained dear lover, and the ink is in my veins, and it rushes, pounding in and out my heart, paralysing my frame in its fury, and it just won't fit inside my pen. This ink is in my head and haunts the black and white montage of memories with red ink that stains all my dresses on my chest, though I'm smiling and uncertain in the still life flashbacks in my mind. I want to write something but like like horizontal lines on wrists, it would surely bleed, in slow tingling drizzles that smudge like muddled words but surely achieve no means. Just a temporary relief for a wound not bold enough to build pus and be sceptic enough to be lethal. Just a temporary passive relief, victim to its own sheepish helplessness. I want to write but I'm far, far too afraid I'd bleed...
Kitso: Cognitive Wasabi