Some people say that writing is like breathing, but I disagree because every word I write is a knife and if I keep on trying to regurgitate them,

I think I might choke.

No one ever told me that writing was more than pink ribbons slightly frayed at the edges so I wasn't sure what to expect, but now I'm standing here looking at my ink stained palms,

And all I can think is that my skin must be blistered from the words that come out of my fingertips because they burn.

They burn and it reminds me of that Albert Camus quote because when I write, I feel the stars dripping from the sky and when they plummet down to Earth,

All I can think about is how many craters will this stanza rip up in my chest next,

Because my words aren't pink ribbons and they are bleeding and I can't stitch my lips together without choking the only thing has ever mattered, that has stuck by my side to death-

Words.

So don't tell me that writing is easy, that words are not spray painted against dilapidated brick walls in the back of crumbling houses with too many crying voices to hear the silence in the calm,

Don't tell me that they don't hurt

Because they do.

They hurt a lot