i love writing but i'm scared to write, day and night, i think i might just pick up my pen but then a voice in my head says wait. the time isn't right so don't write just yet. everything i've written has turned to ash, a slash across my heart, a part of it burnt, the other numb to everything that's come to me. and so i wait. because i can't be brash, take another slash, or more ash. 

they say words make things more beautiful but mine can only kill. it's a skill i will have learnt to withhold with age, when i'm at a stage to accept that every page doesn't need to have words. and it's absurd to me but i see the disastrous impact of what i write and it doesn't feel right to write anymore. so i wait. 

i wait until i am sure that i won't be insecure of the place i hold in your life. i pause with a knife at my wrist, a millimeter away from a tryst with death but more importantly a means to not pick up my pen. a means for when i need to fight the inexorable urge to write. 

i don't want to kill what hasn't been born yet. so i'll sacrifice my pen to a dusty old stand. i'll stand and watch as it collects dust. i'll watch as the end will rust. and it must. because this is the process i trust. 

loving you scares me but writing about you scares me more. loving you might kill me, but writing about you will kill us. so i'll let my pen collect dust, instead. i dont want to kill what isn't dead. 

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