Here I sit alone with my thoughts.
Pen to paper,
Marking the naked pages with my kind of ink.
Fresh white pages calling to me to get out my ink pen and embark on a new sleeve.
The tattoos of my soul,
A few layers deep,
Break through my skin like a ripe apple.
I take a juicy bite,
Let the ink filled juices run down my chin.
While licking my lips,
Letting the taste smother my senses,
I taste a hint of blood, tears and something else that I can’t place.
Must be hope.
I taste them all willingly while ink fills the pages.
Inviting my taste buds to wake,
I take another bite, missing the apple entirely.
Must be love.
I wipe away the beads of blood from my lip, remembering the taste so well.
Swig of red wine beside me, calms the memories.
Turning the next page, the smell of my fresh journal intoxicates me.
I must make my mark.
Let the wet ink of my soul dry and become therapy for my mind.
I dive in, naked and only slightly afraid.
These thoughts are mine,
My private getaway.
My tranquil darkness that illuminates the black hole of the world.
Marking these pages til my fingers hurt,
Keeps my healing in place and gives me a voice.
One that must be shared with this world,
As I sit alone with my thoughts.
(C) Tabatha Goughneour 2019