Pens and Paper and the Words They Utter

My pen is silver and sharp and my paper is soft and warm.

My words are red and shaky.

We all began as blank canvases,

but the slow ascent into adulthood began to leave its claw marks on this picture.

Imperfections of the skin,

I can’t write the conclusion

and I never was good at endings,

they lie in false hope of someone coming.

I tell myself I’ll be strong,

but I’m still writing words,

the words are still seeping into my skin

the ink never runs out,

and this canvas becomes butchered and mangled.

My pen is silver and my paper is soft

and my words are red like blood.