The Page I Drenched in Ink

The words spilled faster than thought, an inkstorm across the page. It wasn't careful or measured just raw, urgent, desperate. A confession. A reckoning. Every line bled, dark, and heavy, a color tat once felt like home but now stung like a wound.

It had started so beautifully. Letters crafted in soft strokes, sentences built like gentle bridges between two souls. But something had shifted. The ink grew thicker, the words more jagged. What was once a story of warmth became a monologue of aching.

The last line trembled under my fingers. I read it once, twice. Then i watched as the ink dried, locking my feelings into permanence. I closed the notebook. That color no, I wouldn't use it again. Not for poetry. Not for you.