She used to write because of pain. She used to spill words and bleed ink because of it. She used to feel it eating up all that make sense to her, leaving her feeling shattered because there’s nothing left in her. She dwelt in the emptiness that sucked up her whole being and swallowed up every bit of her cracking sanity. She yielded into the danger and engaged to the thrill of standing on the edge of a pointed dagger. She did it all to momentary please and satisfy a part of her that never seemed to be appeased. She did it all because of pain. She did it all because of it.

Now she’s writing for pain. She sheds words and sweats ink for it. Unlike before, it doesn’t hurt her any more to feel it creeping inside her, squeezing her soul and draining her body up. She lies onto the vacuum that drinks up all the special and substantial pieces and fragments of her fading memories and dissolving consciousness. She succumbs into the peril and betroths to the quiver of every menacing downfall. She does it all to permanently feel chuffed and live in a void of boundless hopelessness— to fill in the cracks and holes of her that never seem to mend and be completed. She does it all for pain. She does it all for it.