Ink

By Keerthana Sujith

There are days where the stars refuse to sparkle against the dark velvet sky,

days where the wind pushes clouds upon the sun; blocking any semblance of light. 

And there are days where my hand refuses to pick up a pen 

and let my thoughts flow in brutally permanent ink. 

I find an unmatched comfort in watching as my fingers form shabby, 

un-uniform, but complete fragments of my soul.

I allow the ink to flow like the tears that so often stain my cheek; 

I find myself bleeding ink into every desperate word I write.

My hands seem to be forever stained with my new blue-black blood.

It seeps into every inch of skin, 

holding its place with such familiar stubbornness,

 that I haven't the heart to wash it away. 

Ink and I are old friends.

But I have yet to meet anyone as cruel. 

It is nothing without a hand to guide it, 

like how a mirror is nothing without someone peering into it, 

Ink is raw power because it can be anything, everything and nothing all in one,

It can be an all-consuming  black hole of exhausted thoughts,

existentialism, nihilism, death. 

Or it can be the innocent note at the end of a birthday card. 

Maybe that is why I fear it so. 

Because if I will it to,  it can show me who I am.

If I will it to, with sincere honesty, it can show me who I could be. 

And maybe deep down I am not yet ready to meet her. 

By Keerthana Sujith