My fingers hold the pen.

My pen touches the paper.

My paper’s cut.

I look down...there’s a hole.

My hole comes to life, the hole I had been pretending doesn’t even exist inside.

Because sometimes, its intensity refuses to come out in words.

I try to give my tears a voice, but my ducts cannot cooperate well with my pen. It’s their territory; no one else gets to have access to those endless oceans inside.

I try to explain the heaviness of every sigh brushing through my nose, but the air flows around and I can no longer contain it anywhere between my lines.

I wake up unconsciously clenching my teeth, and realize it had been hurting all through my sleep. My hands gently reach out to soothe the pressure, but does that stop it from happening again the following night?

My throat itches, it itches so hard. Because it carries the weight of all that still remains unsaid. It carries the weight of those screams that keep getting suppressed. It carries the noise I’ve been wanting to make, but convinced myself I’m undeserving of the space it would eventually allow me to take. My lips part but silence is all what my ears can make out of it.

Because for the longest time, words have been my only way out. But my fingers, my pen, and my paper...they do not feel enough this time. I need to cry. I need to allow myself the relief of that sigh. I need to connect with all the parts of my body, that still have more to tell. Because that’s a form of art in and of itself. My body... with all the wounds it’s still yet to learn how to express.