Spread

For a long time, I thought that I’ve outrun it.

That feeling of dread.

I’ve changed, the world is no longer as small as it was.

The darkness that used to drown like sea, reduced to a bottle of ink I now write with.

But that ink spills, smudges and marks.

Onto paper, onto skin.

And with every needle, every point.

It sinks deeper into flesh.

Tar-like. Permanent. Relentless.

It thrives in my darkest moments, conquering deep red and turning it pitch black.

It isn’t the needle, it isn’t the spillage.

It has always been there.