Writing is in my bones my platelets made of words. I write with the pens that are my fingers waving sigils in the air. I write with the pens that are my fingers; each finger long bones hollowed out the ink flows through inspired by the guidance by the stories my body holds.
Month: October 2021
Fingers like twisted branches reach for a pen to write about the lines that fold around her gnarled knuckles dry with age from holding onto stories too long her forearms rest heavy on the smooth white pages of bark as she writes her story with ink made of dirt; lines of language.