I don’t write the words that comfort you. They’ve never been meant for that.
I don’t write the words that please you.
I write words of flame, turning to cinders your convictions.
I write words of pain, attempting to make you feel, something, anything.
I write crooked pages of rage, dark slashes marring the whiteness.
I write the broken manuscript of an uneasy spirit.
I write so you can hurt. Feel my hurt.
I write of how it scalds my skin. My bones. My soul.
I can’t write the words that reassure you.
I can’t write the words, for when I utter those falsehoods.