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.