The needle slides into the vein on the back of my hand like a ravenous worm. The bloodletter quill drinks the ink of my heart so I can spill it onto paper in calligraphic drops stretched thin.
I don't mind. Small sacrifices are what life is comprised of, sometimes.
I scratch idle notes to myself, the pen flourishing. The skin of my knuckles pulls tight. The loops of my G's and Y's seize into ovals.
Some afternoons, when I join with the quill, the scrawling is black blood-- sour and thick. The writing instrument halts and tears the page as I struggle to please my Muse. Drops of hesitation litter the margins like crushed spiders.
Other evenings, a jasmine blossom in my temples turns my blood to silver. Coursing through my arteries like an orgasm; liquefied in the blaze under my ribs. Mental word authored into semi-precious lines, forged from adoration. The ink glints from the page against the glow of my irises.
Some days find the pinion-nib moving faster than my fingers guide it, devouring blank spaces of parchment and page with characters I can scarcely remember writing. And other days, even though the quill drinks deeply, I find myself no richer in words or expression.
Sometimes, I think it's just the ministration of leeches. Eating the emptiness a squelching ribbon at a time. Drawn out of me like a threaded parasite.
I don't know if the inkwell is finite.
Six times thicker than water may mean something: it makes it harder to smudge with the stain of someone else's tears.
11:32 p.m. - 2014-05-06
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