Bleeding words.

Sometimes I stare at the deep black, the endless canvas of that wall and wonder how relieving it would feel to cut open my arm, smear it against that perfect black surface and let all the words out. To see them smeared and staring back, free from the confines of my skin.

I can see the morbidness in this. But unless you know what it feels like to be trapped and consumed by all the things you cannot bring your mouth to speak, you cannot know the sense of desperation.