Self-Analytical Prose: ...
by WendyElizabeth
I'm always closed off.
Only when the numbness starts to buzz under my skin and deafen the still silence do I snap.
I open my heart and the words drip from my mouth like the saliva of a starved man. The tears form wet trails down my cheeks, spewing salty pieces of myself. My blood slams through my veins, beating the sound of unrestraint in my ears. My teeth grind together, in well worn grooves of familiarity.
The pen sits in my hand, tapping out a staccato rhythm on the paper, impatiently waiting to make it's mark. I pour myself onto the white lined paper, letting my inner torment meander its way in the ink.
The ink is my blood and the paper is its lover.


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