In ink,
Secreted away in the murky corners of my boudoir, lay trapped the feelings that I share for you-
Yearning and paralyzed, on a bed, whose edges time does not brush.

In ink,
I write speeches, my lips dare not speak;
To ears that are shut, to the truth that it breaths.

In ink,
I weave stories, to fit in my guilt,
For the wall of silence that my body has built.

In ink,
I speak sermons, for my soul and my skin,
Yet neither of them seems cleansed of their sin.

I don’t want to go down, this way, today;
I don’t, and yet I spiral.

I don’t want to feel these waves of doubt,
Crashing onto my body;
I don’t, and yet I spiral.

I suffocate under the weight of the world–
Under the weight of myself;
Crashing onto my body.

I don’t want to see myself give in,
Close up, or come undone;
Under fierce eyes, that lay fervently searching;
Under the weight of myself.

Thus, in ink,
I write these speeches to fit,
My heart, that’s yearning and longing for it.

–

And, in ink,
I die a million times,
And then a million more.

–

For in ink I’ll lie a million times,
And you will never know.