Like ink and blood spill from my pen,
lackluster in their shaping
of the words upon my tongue and lips,
within my mind, the buried depths,
transported here to bide their time,
creep into parts of my real life,
stories recalled, truths to be told,
delusions of what to expect;
puffy eyes, puffy lips,
vacate the tears I haven’t wept,
or lock them up tightly again,
a choice to die the slowest death,
I can’t abide what they express,
but can’t deny their usefulness,
in prompting when to run and hide,
’til I decide to gush again.

Emily Cloward © 2018