Too many times the sink has run black with ink
and words have been lost in my drain

Echo in the pipes
The house is screaming at me

You are more than words

My skin tingles where the ink used to mark it
The marks etched into my skin reminders
that who I can be and who I am are
two
different
people

Still I thought that if I could write onto my hand
the metaphors I could feel in my stomach
that the ink would seep through my skin
into my blood
and I would become
my words

Should have poured the ink down my throat
to force the metaphors out, but
I am afraid of my insides turning black

I am afraid that my insides are already black.

Just another reminder than language isn’t a universal truth,
its only a facilitator for those metaphors
Darling, don’t try to take them out of your stomach
they were always meant to be there
as a remind of who you can be.

And maybe that’s not so bad.