Puncture me, words of bleeding ink.

Rip through my veins, I’m possessed by you, like a puppet on a string. 

You own me in chains. Cold, hard steel. Break me, break my bones. Shatter my spirit of writer’s block. 

I don’t know what I’m saying. I don’t know what I’m trying to say. I’m bad at this. Bad at life. Cut my throat of blood and ice. Rip my spine, use it for your books.

My flesh will be the cover, my blood you will write with. I am a slave, now and forever, to the spirit that is writing. It owns me, and I love it. It hurts me, but I embrace it.

You can call it abuse, but to me it’s just tough love. You can try to fight it, but it latches on, like a snake around your throat, the words burrow into your skin, like spiders, your flesh will crawl and slither, ache to escape, but your mind lusts for it. 

That savagery, that greed, that need to write, fingers a slave to the notebook, the pen, the keyboard. Even my skeleton will write. I am here, a slave to this spirit for a thousand lifetimes.

I can turn to dust, my bones will crack and dry up, my fingers withered, my eye sockets turned long ago to voids of emptiness, but I will keep going. I have to. Because it is all I have left.