Broken Words on a Broken Page

Broken words on a broken page. That’s all I have some nights.
Writing is the only way I can bleed without a blade.
It’s the only time I feel anything
because for so long, I wasn’t allowed to feel at all.

I don’t know how to cry.
I don’t know how to laugh without it sounding foreign in my ears.
Comfort feels like a language I never learned.

To be human, in the way others are, is alien to me.
Unless I’m writing.
Only then does something stir inside me that doesn’t feel like emptiness.

But anger—anger I know too well.
It lives in me like fire, like a flash-bang set to go off,
ready to consume not just me, but everything around me.

And I am terrified of becoming him.
The monster whose shadow I still live in.
I don’t want my words or my hands
to leave wounds that bleed for a lifetime.

So I turn the fire inward.
I cut myself down instead of others.
Because at least if I destroy myself,
It’s forgivable.
It’s excusable.

No one else has to carry scars carved from my rage.
No one else has to bleed from the same darkness that already haunts me.

But the truth is—these pages bleed too.
And sometimes I wonder if the ghosts I’m trying to exorcise
They aren’t finding their way back into me
through every word I write.