The Ink Stain

How long are you going to keep torturing yourself for?
It was never your fault and yet you have yourself believing
That you were somehow in control.
You’re deluded if you think you were ever
In control.
You’re trying to confess a lie. Yet,
You know it was truth when you uttered it.
The ink is spilling from your pen and now
The paper bleeds.
If you would stop scratching away at the edges
At what was once your table,
You could make space in the air to be invaded
By my words.
Of course, it is useless if you refuse to make space
In your mind to take it in or space
In your ear to listen to me.
You are stubborn, Jo.
The ink is now dripping and small beads of it
Are being soaked into the dilapidated wood.

The paper is no more. Let go of your pen, my dear.

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