As much as I love these words, they also scare me. I fill my pen with ink from my veins and I mix it up with sweat and tears and paper and the throbbing in my head calms down a little and I rest. Then I peek back at the monsters and heroes I’ve created and it’s like I’m haemophobic. I lose my footing and I spin or my world does until I’m reduced to the lump of mess you find trembling under the table.
So I stop it. I sew my veins shut and I snap the pen over my knees and I burn the monsters and heroes and I weep as I watch my them turn to ash.
Then I see you and I feel and I say, just a little more and I cut it open again and it’s the toil all over again to put you into words and to make you into the fusion and I get it right, not always but once in a while I do. And it’s eureka.
It lasts a fraction of a second until the fear sets in and I panic. What if you know that it’s about you? What will I do then? What if you like it and you smile and you take my hand and I burst into dust? What if you don’t like it and you frown and set it aside? That will break my heart then my throat and my arms… until I’m dust again.
So I weep and wail as I feed the fire with words of you and I watch you burn.
I don’t have writer’s block. I haven’t lost the words. A little bit of the black poison and a little bit of the scarlet ink and the stretch of the white paper and they come rushing like drones around their queen. I’m tired of burning and watching them wither away disappointed by my weakness to put them in people’s faces and say, ‘I made them. And I love them and you shall understand and love them too.’
And in my vanity I do love this gift of words from my creative, elusive genius. He says, ‘guard them with your life and make them count in the world.’ And he slowly puts them into my stained hands and I take and stitch them in. Then they go astray and they count in the world yet they shut it down and create turmoil or they pass over unseen, unfelt and I hurt for them and I burn with them, to guard them with my life.