I've been sitting here for the last two hours
with a pen in my hand
and a blank page in front of me
but somehow tonight,
the words won't come out,
won't arrange themselves
neatly into sentences and metaphors
like they usually do.
The relief of being able to open up my chest
and let it all out won't greet me and I find myself
suffocating in feelings I can't put into words.
I feel like I've woken up on
the wrong side, in the wrong body.
A body whose hands don't know the
way to hold a pen like a lover
and whose mind doesn't look like
the inside of an open notebook,
whose blood isn't spelled 'ink'.
And suddenly I don't know what to do
with myself because now I have nowhere
to escape to, no one to turn to.
No one who understands me the way words do,
no one who offers me shelter the way writing does.
And tonight, all I can think about is
what a tragedy it is when a writer runs out of words.
