Stab Me With a Pen

Stab me with a fountain pen and I will bleed ink.

My black embryonic fluid will splatter into letters, words, and sentences on sheets of creamy, white paper and pool at my feet when I fall asleep, head on the desk, clutching the pen in my stiff hand.

My insides will splash and stain the nearby walls with confused ramblings and carefully edited thoughts that have been bouncing off the walls in my brain for as long as I’ve been able to think.

Can anyone remember the first thought they ever had? The first tear they ever shed? Their first nightmare?

I can.

The crazed mist of memories is all here, tucked neatly into the never sleeping beehive under my skull. How can humans not go crazy? So many thoughts fighting for a place in our heads. Every day more thoughts crowd into that finite space.

Stick a pen in my vein and let the thoughts drip out onto the pages before I lose what little sanity I have left. Any pain in there? Bleed it out onto the screen before me, so I can understand it. Regrets? Many. They live rent-free in my head until I pour my inky blood out onto hungry pages, looking for redemption. Dreams? They are gone. Taken by my past.

Writing is a sick business, done in the dark by sick people.