My Dangers of Writing

My longing to write is dangerous. My soul yearns to piece together the words on this page until my flesh rips, and tears, and peels itself away from the quivering bones that lay beneath it. I fear I have too much to say but not enough time to say it. My thoughts too far and wide and grinning and grim for something so complex and small as a human is doomed to be. 

I am human. I am my art.

I live, and sweat, and breathe, and bleed the words I flaunt between these pages. The spaces between the lines are etched into my gut, curves and letters carved into the heart that I wish so deeply would slow down its beating, for what my heart feels is dangerous. My heart is selfish. My mind enabling its greedy reasons to continue pounding. I don’t want it to beat as harshly as it does. I am separate from the body I inhabit. This may not make sense to many but it is not for many to make sense of. One day, my soul will consume the husk it resides in. Meat and bone will separate, muscle being torn apart by the teeth it once worked with. It will be beautiful. I want to and will be beautiful. To those who find it within their nightmares, to those who seek comfort in disturbance, and to those who search for serenity and solace in the cynical. I will be their mascot.