I don’t know what to write.
If I wanted to, I could prick the places on my skin where my freckles are.
I’d have red, angry holes in my skin,
instead of small brown dots where those freckles now are.
I think those spots would bleed words.
Maybe after I started bleeding words, I could find something to write about, for...
There would be no point in hiding everything I ever wanted to say anymore,
for those words which I now guard as if I was a dragon,
would stain my skin,
drip onto the floor,
smear on the fabric of my clothes,
be visible for anybody to read if they wanted to.
I refrain from pricking my skin and bleeding those words, my words,
for various reasons-
a)Nobody would bother with the words my skin dripped unless they gleamed gold.
If they filled the holes in other’s hearts, then maybe they would flock to me and
But I don’t bleed gold to buy at much as the world with,
I don’t bleed mortar to fill in the gaps in your soul or heart,
I don’t bleed you the companionship you lack or the comfort you desire-
I bleed red words, red, like the color everyone else bleeds.
b)Bleeding would hurt.
It’s a shitty reason, it's a shitty reason,
every motivation poster in America and in the world ever tells you to work hard and then soak in your just reward.
They never said what working hard would feel like.
They never said that to pull the boat’s tiller around to change course, you have to put your whole back and soul into it
Until your muscles can’t take it anymore and doubt hits you in huge wave after wave, drenches you, soaks into your skin
Finally, after what is not just simple persistence, the boat’s on the right course-
But if it’s going to continue on that path, you have to sit by the tiller day in and day out.
C)these words would be a culmination of everything I ever wanted to say,
negative and positive,
and everything I ever thought about writing or actually wrote,
would pour out from those holes in my freckles and be visible for others to pursue at their leisure.
All those words visible- I can see nothing but negative impacts.
Bleeding these words could-it would, I know it would, draw me negative attention.
It would draw me scorn, draw me misunderstanding, more ammunition for anyone to use against me, more information that could be twisted into something acidic, which I’ll find stuck into me like hot knives.
My flaws wouldn't be hidden in this outflow of words, and they could-would be pulled out, would be magnified, would be mocked.
Criticism would be drawn to me like moths are drawn to electric lights and candle flames, but unlike fire, I couldn't burn the criticism to a crisp because it would sneak past the fireballs I can't even bring myself to throw and creep into through all the cracks and attack all the weak spots the outpouring of words gave away.
All in all, it's better to never prick my freckles, to continue to contain all my words inside, to... continue to lack ideas for what to write.
Even if I wanted inspiration available all over my arms, the positive would never outweigh the negatives at all in any scenario at all involving reason