a blank page touches me, my first breath
nostrils flare, lungs expand and after a moment’s pause
I’m breathing
blood rushes through my veins and feeds my body
my soul connects to time and space
and my pen can’t stop moving across the page
I exhale, looking down at all the marks
the scars from the ink, my footprints
moving between the margins
contradicting the structure of lined pages
by filling them with abundant freedom
we survive by expelling our spirits
in the best ways we know how
I touch a new page, gentle like a petal
making up the beautiful rose of my story
I’m freeing
myself from the obligation to write
by making it personal and revealing
the multi-facets of who I am
Because these ink scars are time-marked
symbols of the trauma of my soul

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