by Quella

With this pen,

with this hand,

I once wrote monsters.

I wrote with the fatal spikes on their tails.

Truth clung to their backs,

so I wrote with the beastly lies on their tongues.

The blood of them stained the letters, the paper.

Seared through the fibers, into the table.

I disowned them once they were mine.

Now they breath fire in the trash can.

Burning through words that can’t contain them.

Like pulsing magma in a paper cup.


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