Under my skin

The words are just at the tip of my tongue

But it steals them away until I am left hating the silence

This page laughs, each new draft makes a mockery of me

Too tired to fully commit or force myself to think

Too tired to gain my energy back

This ink holds so much potential within me

I avoid full stops in the hope that it will not hinder my progress

Grabbing the vial to swallow the ink

If it will not bend to my fingers and let me speak

Then I will become one with it

Ink flows through my veins

Sentences wrap themselves around my neck and limbs

Words empty my brain and fill it anew

My skin burns away, replaced with handcrafted paper

My eyes slowly open and the colour is different inks all mixed

My head raises to where they can see my face

Remade and tired of new drafts

Tired of feeling these words crawling under my skin

Tired of not letting them out on paper

Tired of not being able to write down the stories

With blood of ink, skin of paper and talons made of words

I am the story