a blank page opens up to me. a page that still hasn't born the weight of your name, or my words about us, or the ink my blood makes when these thoughts hurt.
it's become less blank, less virgin, more tainted. i ruined it, knowingly. because i bear a tumor that i need to pour somewhere. and this little white innocent thing is collateral damage.
we've become so tainted, so dirtied. so bad and so good. so evil, so starved for soul food, for heart solace, so lost and so repentant. the page might have been blank one day, but that was long ago and now it's a scroll. now it holds what eyes can read and hearts can feel and that's miles better than virgin white to me. it may not be as pure but it has things to tell and things to leave untold.
i close another page filled with my words. i keep making promises of forgetting your mention, forgetting you. but i keep forgetting, that without you, my muse, i have no reason to write. you made my heart swell with a happiness pill and then you slashed through it. and so i write and keep writing till my blood-ink runs dry. till i tire of writing you.
mirror mirror on the wall, who's the dirtiest of them all?