Folds of purple satin cloth,

Swallow me.

The lancet from out of darkness,

Taunts me.

Creaking stairs choke on themselves,

begging for attention, I cannot give.

The pen drips ink like maddening faucets,

Unhinging me.

A rope hangs from where I last tried,

Begging me.

Leonard and Vita bicker for my heart,

pulling me into pieces, left on the page.

I am no longer a person,

Instead, a writer.