Pages

I am going to tear up pages with words.
Then scrunch them tight into balls to throw 
At invisible walls and waste paper bins.

I don’t know what else to do.

I am going to slice through pages
With my pen,
Blackest ink on whitest skin,
A facsimile of me:
Torn, ripped apart, crossed out, mistake after mistake after miraculous mistake.

I will watch then, as ink seeps through the sheets,
Red like my bleeding love.
It’s a stain that spreads wide,
Across our fragile paper of time and place and
It will not be erased
For all your trying.

For my failings?
I am going to write and re-write 
The ending I want to hear
Scratching uncomfortable words crudely,
Carving them indelibly into the paper thin walls of your white heart
With a pen I have made of love,
Until there are no pages left and these futile
Words run dry like tearless eye sockets
And I am left with nothing,
Or everything:
Just a pen,
And cool, white paper.

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