The Bleeding Page

The Bleeding Page

I do not ask for kindness here

this isn’t stitched in velvet thread

each line I write has learned to bite

and every word I’ve left has bled

The paper takes what silence hides

it doesn’t blink, it doesn’t pray

I pour the parts I dare not name

and watch the white turn dark with grey

This isn’t art for hanging walls

it isn’t meant to heal or sing

it is the bruise, the break, the fall

the quiet burn beneath the wing

A thousand ghosts in borrowed ink

have crawled beneath my calloused skin

and though I never write for love

I write to let the storm begin

So do not call it pretty prose

don’t dress it up, don’t give it grace

this is the truth, uncombed, unsweet

the ink that dares to show its face