It starts as an itch,
an idea in bits,
scratched
till the skin splits
and ink meets its match
in the bleeding that drips
a pattern onto the page
which sticks,
holding the nib
with firming grip
as the blood begins to buffer
the cut
clotting thick
till the meaning fits
and settles itself
as a scar,
starting at scarlet
to a shimmering blush
when the sparks rush
to the surface
with one sensitive touch,
and when the sensations
created
are all out of love,
its silver surface stays
as a statement
to be heard
for what happens
when the heart tries
to stop the writer’s words.