I am a writer before I am a human.
I know this because of how heavy
the chains of creation bind me
to the spirals of self-destruction;
Because of how my lungs bleed
whenever I breathe my own name
without exhaling my soul's decay
in blood-stained worlds of violent words.
My fingers can't move in patterns
that don't usher ugliness into the open,
and my feet cannot move me forward
in any direction opposite of despair:
My thirst cannot be quenched
by anything but the poison
that fill my veins with the blessing
of being nailed to the burning cross,
My voice will carry the prophecies
of the consuming void in my rib cage,
but it can never ask forgiveness
from neither Gods nor Men
I know that I am a writer before I am a human
because I do not know what it means to live
in a world that is filled with colours
beyond the black ink and white paper
