Let the words around be a salve, let them soothe
Every step an inky mess, contrived to free me
My heart bleeds. Syllables drop onto the page, the walls
And seep into eyelids, whispers and wounds.
I need them to live, to purify me
Foulness is flung from my hands as I speak
With a swirl of ink, and words, which are born
To die by my hand, thistled and thorned.