Mute

I have nothing left to say, bereft of clay from the theft of day. I’ll not wet my lips to bite on fingertips while paper rips through the words that desperately trip and slip through my grip. I’m pressing lead into everything I’d ever said about the red in my head, while I stayed in bed, refusing to go where you’ve tread. You, who’ve painted my eyes over every sunrise because you wouldn’t let me sink into my demise and just sleep it all off, keep it all off from the steep deep of all that you’ve reaped from the dry well of my mind, the dyed swell of the dreams I could never find. And I can’t think of anything to do, to make it untrue, that you’ve made me utterly blue from the lack of breath and death, that you’ve trapped me on the map of the gap between North and the most isolated winter, waiting for me to splinter into all the pages that should have shattered against all that mattered. So here I am picking at the stitches, relieving all your itches, with the sharpest of feathers, dipping into the warmth for whatever tethers that would hold me still, against your will and the chill that still whimpered outside my window sill.

Write me a scar. I’ll make you a star.

~Noct…………………