You pierced my heart with your fountain pen
but blood did not bleed, but rather ink spilled.
The ebony blackness of the liquid began to curl
and twist itself into decorative words,
forming things I have long been fearful to speak;
voicing out all my vulnerabilities,
my fears, dreams, and long-time wishes.
With time, the ink began to write out
all the emotions I long since held for you.
When all was revealed,
a bucket of oil was taken in your hand,
and you washed out all all my spilled ink.
Striking a match, all my precious words were set on fire.
All that is left, are mere black smudges of everything I ever was;
everything I ever felt safe in confining to you,
- Karen Isabella