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,
Just a pen,
And cool, white paper.