Ink and Wounds

I am a writer, my love. I don’t cry. Tears don’t flow from these eyes. Instead, I bleed on paper, Each word a drop of pain, Each sentence a scar etched deep within. When my heart breaks, I don’t wail, I let the ink pour from my soul, Every line a whisper of sorrow, Every paragraph a scream in the night. I am a writer, my love. I don’t weep. My grief is silent, but it bleeds Onto the pages I craft, the stories I weave, Creating a tapestry of wounds, A canvas of heartache and dreams. When joy escapes me, I don’t chase, I capture it in metaphors, Preserving fleeting moments of light In the lines of a poem, the rhythm of a verse. I am a writer, my love. I don’t cry. I bleed on paper, and in that bleeding, I heal, Transforming anguish into art, Turning pain into beauty, And in those words, I find my solace.