If you were to harm me,

slice me open,

I think that a knife would be useless.

 

Instead,

rip up a thousand journals

and use the edges,

for nothing hurts more than a paper cut.

 

Then,

when I bleed,

you won't see the red,

but the black,

the ink,

the font

of all the quotes,

the passages,

the books

I claim to know

and to know me.

 

It's sad really,

because if the words were a part of me

why would they seep out

and over my lifelessness

so effortlessly?

 

Why wouldn't they cling to my ribcage

and remain?

 

I guess then the words would all be lies.

 

Just enough to fill up the void

between my skin and bones.

 

Just enough to keep me living

for everyone else.