Write until you’re dry, write until you’re right – until your veins are tired of weeping and waiting for the words to spill out of you, like the purging of a sickness, like the birthing of a still born, like the combustion of a weak and weary star grown sick of shining, like the wind unweaving tangled weeds in the ways the heart unwinds in the lips of a lover, like a tired body loosens its limbs on a soft and gentle bed – so it goes with the glide of pen as it stains a blank page like a blood stained cloth in moments of quiet death.
@jennythepoet and @jennylovegood on instagram.
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