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I want to write you a letter. But you could not read it the way mind has said it, the way Heart has meant it. We both speak the same tongue- but hearts been bled on my lips, and bloods been pumped through my teeth, any words I say are washed with crimson rhythm - you’d listen with your ears, and cypher with your mind. but, my words are heard on skin, and taught within the heart. You could not hear and listen, you could not read and understand. My heart would be lost to a sickle mind, my blood lost, and bled through funnelled hands- my words would sink, drown, and swim away. I want to write a letter - but, as you are, that is all ink will be- letters, letters bound to paper, no more meaningful then the page there on. So, I want to write a letter- painted on canvas, and written in blood. Where words would’ve lost you, my heart will find you- ripped from my chest and splayed over the page- naked and vulnerable, for your eyes alone. Where meaning would’ve eluded you, the paint shall show you- reds, and crimson, and cherry, and coal- cut from my flesh and torn from my skin, bleeding in the words I mean. I want to write a letter... I want you to see and understand... I want someone to write my letters back to me.
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