Sentenced

I wear my heart on paper Ink fills my veins like blood reviews cut like a razor but I’m addicted to the pen. I pump words with every heartbeat I hoard paragraphs in my room I take interjections like a junkie I wear verbs like a parfum. I’m feeling the contractions as I erase awkward phrases I write sad poems that feel like skin. and fill sheets of diary pages I blush at lurid pronouns that I conjure then, I consider putting word-play off but I’m sentenced to the pen . . . *Inspired by Michael R. Burch's poem: At the Natchez Trace