Writing is not just words on a page—
it is marrow, stripped and reshaped.
I carve stories from my ribs, pull
sentences from my tissue, bleed ink
like it runs through my veins.
Every character is the spirit of me,
every chapter, a fragment of something
I lost or longed for.
The pen is a scalpel, precise and unforgiving.
I cut too deep sometimes, leave wounds open,
       raw and aching. But I keep going,
because the words demand to be written,
because the story is alive
beneath my skin, clawing
                                                                 to get out.
When the pages are filled, I exhale,
hollowed and whole at once.
The book is done, but
the bones remember.
The ink stains never fade.