Young, Green, Wrinkled, and Bleeding

I woke up from a dream that bare hands tore me apart, my heart ripped out of my chest, my fingers bent from pages and pages of writing, and I had no choice but to live for my art, live with my eyes buried in sleep, live broken. Wide open and vulnerable, no choice but to let the world I spent my adult life running from sink its teeth into me. I’m no longer young and green, but wrinkled and bleeding. Bleeding out every piece of life I’ve collected, ink I have no recollection of flowing in me is endlessly flowing out of me. I’m bathing in my darkness and lighting candles for my shadows.