on friday afternoon i tell myself,

"today is your day. you can make things right,"
until i find myself a slave to the 

bright white glow of a blank, electronic canvas

with a flashing line telling me where to make my fingers raw.

i spit out meaningless words-
odes and epistolaries
about a boy and a girl who love each other,
even though i don’t know “love” is.

i stare at the word document and tell myself to write-
write because the words cannot be spoken,
the words cannot be heard.
type the words until arthritis freezes your joints and your brain vessels clot.
write for liberation, for an "i love you,” for a chance of living-
but i write nothing.

an audiobook plays in the background-

the soft voice is entrancing, captivating, and justifies the aching sensation in my gut.

i dream of my own publication:
a paperback book with my words tattooed on soft, delicate, cream paper,
a title and an end.

but i do not write simple seconds of love,
or paragraphs of the non-loving moments that occur.
i begin to write about pain and torture of the living,
and that is why i have become like them.

i craft images of the moments of injustice,
the daily tears that carve canyons into perfectly made up faces,
the times that a man put his hands on a lover in unloving ways,
the reasons why people become suicidal.

i write about pain and torture of the living,
and that is why i have become like them.

i have become a slave to the
bright white glow of a blank, electronic canvas

with a flashing line telling me where to make my fingers raw.