Kiran Speaks

I write a story from long ago,

tales of a girl who doesn’t exist,

a broken story, another fib,

bleeding from the pencil in my grip.

So when they ask if it’s related

to my illness, if “it’s a state of,”

I throw my head back and laugh,

“I’m a writer, a creative.”

But I feel sick to my stomach

fist full of hair, lungs breathless

a pointed knife to my chest

eyes wide, loss of innocence

a bottle of whiskey on the shelf

knock it down, glass shattering

hands wrapped around my neck life f

lashing back, head pounding.

I write a story long forgotten,

its words branded into my brain

damaged goods, handle with care

razor sharp edge, receiver beware.

So ask again and I’ll give you the truth

but consider if you can take the weight of,

or with tears full of blood, I’ll simply smile,

“I’m a writer, a creative.”