We Bleed Ink, Not Words
We don’t just write, we bleed in ink,
each word a wound the world can’t see,
soft hearts tracing every tremor of feeling,
carrying storms no one else agrees to be.
We feel too much, in silence and in noise,
turning glances into galaxies of thought,
anxiety stitched into every heartbeat,
yet in our solitude, we find what others cannot.
What we write is never “just words”,
it’s our pulse pressed onto fragile lines,
our thoughts, our fears, our quiet confessions,
our hearts unfolding between the signs.
To feel is our curse, heavy and endless…
but to write - our only way to breathe,
so if you read us, read gently,
we bleed far more than we leave.
R