And sometimes I dip my pen in blackened ink and write nothings because I was brave, my words should be too.
When I write words with italics, does that make them less ghost-like? Even when the lines look weak with exhaust, like I’ve burdened them with my heavy secrets, does it come off as brave? I do that sometimes write words bent and pretty because I want you to see, that a monster trod this very path and planted its feet in my sentences, I want you to see that I didn’t cower away, that I held it on my shoulders till my back slanted. You tell me I’m too cynical, and I think you're a dirty liar, but I keep the memories in a little corner and be gentle not to open, you have my promise I take the hurt and coil it around my first and second rib, see dad said they were the strongest. You put salve on my thighs and tell me to be quiet, I don’t know what I did wrong, you don’t explain. You say It's because you miss me, the marks you leave on my skin say less you say be gentle, and I come to you with my thighs bruised (you see I was kind, but he was not) I kick the pebble, you scold me. The sky is blue, we’re learning division and your hand is on my thigh. I haven’t ever been gentle, can’t you see? Why do you want me to be, which I’m not? But maybe we're not too different, you comb your hair with a little anger in the morning and I think that’s enough for now. My beloved bore me from the toil of sunny June and I claw my way out of the heat.
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