Break the news, you’re striding out to be a better person for someone else.  You seem to step out of a cocoon of evil and develop into a wholesome butterfly towards every other person. Your spears and thorns were designed solely to hurt me. Your purpose became tormenting my purity and rotting a once perfect angel. Whenever you came across my gaze, turmoil invaded my limbs. My nails attempted to tear through luxurious vestments, all to escape from your torturous tactics. Words flow from fingertips to attempt to describe the pain felt, the pain experienced when you kissed a writer in the dark.

   Understanding of your intentions and motives seems impossible, but it leads to the conclusion that I was never good like you. Even on my worst days, did I deserve this? You stood on my chest, until I got wasted like my potential, and kept me from reciting verses of a poem written in the night. Hated hearing my name on the lips of a crowd, felt unworthy of fanatics and support, because I was never good enough for your standards. My heart started bleeding as I tried my best to exist just for you. Exhausted my limits to make myself agreeable to your judgement, and every day that went by, lost myself deeper into an empty pool. The outcome has proven to be texts and murdering critiques of an attitude home to the gates of heaven. Bet you rue the day you kissed a writer in the dark, playing with a conflagration ready to ignite your deepest guilt. A writer’s best tool is the ability to find the secret from a specific subject and sketch it with vocabulary; your secret was the devil. Now she plays, sings, and locks you in her heart, tattooing a permanent image in literature. Bet you rue the day you kissed a writer in the dark and became an epigram.

    I am my ancestor’s child and will become ashamed of myself right after sin. I will allow feelings to daunt me and fill me with greed, loving  you until my breathing stops. Anxiety wraps around my lungs and dread barricades oxygen from my brain. My thoughts will become unthinkable and uninterpretable, I will become your greatest foe and greatest fear. I’ll go on lengths to demonstrate my unsurmountable love, regardless of the massacre these might cause. You’ll call the cops on me, and I’ll still love you. I’ll suffer from obsessive compulsive personality disorder, to get a grip around your wrist and murder everything you adore more than myself. Previously blinded, but vision is carried within stanzas written in my darkest hours, when imagination flows through an unlimited keyboard, and sentences spurt from nurtured soil. I stumble unto a hidden power, which proves that I can live without you. Textual expression strengthens me and wields the vigor to drown in my loneliness. As white invades a black screen, I let go off your hand, and truth becomes clear to me: you were simply a dwindling mercurial high.

     Upon my pages, I still feel you now and then, lingering upon my scraping scars. Your effects appear slowly like pseudo-ephedrine, but now an antidote has come in my possession and I’m able to protect myself from your hallucinations. I dither upon our next encounter, when you see me, will you say I’ve changed? Will you judge my growth and, like a father to her youngest daughter, mourn over her young innocence and submissiveness? I ride the subways, I read the signs, I let the seasons change my mind, I become free and fly away like an eagle, performing a dead spiral over my now deceased past. I love it here, I love my life, ever since I stopped needing you. Ever since New York.

     Bet you rue the day you kissed a writer in the dark, bet you rue the day you hurt the most powerful calamity. Bet you rue the day you spilled your jealousy into a creative mind, capable of transforming deadly sins into a play. Now she plays, and sings, and locks you in her heart. Bet you rue the day you kissed a muse in the dark.

   I am my mother’s child, I love you until it poisons my existence, I love you until my doom and imprisonment is set. But in our most menacing moments, I identified a secret ability, I found a way to be without you, my imperious man.

Writers hold the strongest power between a pen and paper.

My pains equal creativity.