At what point did the world beyond my fingertips stop breathing?
I don’t remember when I committed such a crime as killing. I only remember burning the pages to an ink filled book, crying into the flames.
I ended my lifelong passion and allowed the emptiness to consume me.
Since then it has been so dark.
Words are but a mystery to me, no longer do they bleed from
the flesh.
Instead they hide and I have never felt so useless or so much a coward.
I believe I’ve lost the right to hold a pen.
After all this time of rejecting the art I’m not sure I even know how.