Every time the pencil lead scratched the paper,
The words felt like scarring my own skin,
Drawing my own blood,
Crimson, graphite-grey, ink-black, ghostly white,
Even the boldest colours fade like winter roses.
The words blur together,
A page flows with a single, spidery vein,
Of mascara-dark tears.
The dark days were so clinically dealt with,
Converted from smeared grey and faded black,
To glossy text and paling pages,
Like a million other of its soulless, mass produced copies.
Why do you defy and destroy me with each re-read???
Why can't you be like you were before?
Everything like it all was before???