I watch
as you admit
to the blank pages
your darkest fears
and watch them fill up
word
by
word

until your sins are spelled out
in
Onyx.
Black.
Ink.

You write until
your demons dance
pas de deux
across the page,

and streams
of secrets intertwine
with every new syllable.

You spill your heart
into an empty book
because the only thing
worse
than meeting
your
demons
would be to lock
them
inside you
and
throw
out
the
key.

I understand
your need to stain
the paper’s
white innocence
with
Onyx.
Black.
Ink,

because I, too,
have watched
as secrets
waltzed
inside my veins,
and I need you to know
that
I won’t judge you
if you have
to
bleed.