I remember when my best friend was a person
before I found pen and paper
and now I can not put that pen down.
It’s embedded in my fingers
and ink runs through my veins
mixing as a drug into my blood.
Page after page
I am stripped of my rights
to control what I say,
the metaphors and memories
are left lying around my body
mixing with the pride
I’m sweating on the floor,
but that’s what friendship is.
I’m being assaulted of my secrets
and the things that cause me pain
are beaten out of me over and over again
until all that remains is my skin
and the leftover guts
waiting to be torn out by the hunter
and mounted on a page that might
be thrown away by that hunter.
And when every last piece
of my bone has turned dull
after scraping the page time after time
my blood will run dry
and all that will be left is words
that will be lost in a nothingness
that surrounds the Earth.
My dear old friend has passed
through the generations
comforting and killing
the ones brave enough to write.