The pen bleeds black

into my DNA.

Unable to erase

my yesterday.

 

Poisoned by the ink

carelessly used

by every writer

and those they knew.

 

I try to remove

your permanent marks

left on me

as my life embarks.

 

I saw your veins

filled with doubt

before you saw

your way out.

 

The marks you left

celebrated your pain

and the marks I kept

remain the same.

 

I often ask why

you penned my story.

But now is my time

and there’s no hurry.

 

My veins run black

like the pen I hold

as I become

the story that you told.

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