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Fear and Ink and Other Things.

This?

It’s just how your character
grows in this story
we are all participating in.

Forged. Etched.
Chiseled.
Well-weathered.

Break free of the reins,
escape the pull of anxiety.
Wrap yourself warm and cozy
in blankets of toxicity.

Breathe.

Play your role
based on yourself, play
it well now, live up your arc,
juggle the internal
struggle, your secured anchor
in this fuck-forsaken narrative.

I feel so ill inside, ripped
open wide, carved, gutted,
stripped down by the blade
to the marrow,
truly naked now.

Air like liquid now, oiled
in cold sweat, all dry, collapsing,
tight, burning up
on the inside, tension
growing, always.

Like pulling back
on the bow
more and more until…

Reality penetrates.
Somehow, I survive.
Run away, just to bleed in ink.

Now I’m boldfaced alive
despite my dying inside.
Cool and calm and beaming
in life’s shadow.

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