i'm sorry for the words i stole the similes and alliterations so sickly sweet like bees' honey stolen from the hive, for personification pilfered stolen goods that leapt off your shelves and into my metaphorical cart.
perhaps you should have hidden them, locked them away where they would have been safe from greedy eyes and the fingers of ghosts who are not ghosts who do not care how much the words sting.
but i know you are not sorry for revenge like that.
When was the last time you sat down to write? he asked and if we were being totally honest I guess it had been a while so I stretched my fingers wide and they itched at the thought of the glossy ink against the precious empty white of the paper, the way scribbled imagery could clothe a naked page and how well I would sleep that night after uncurling my anxious fingers and toes – I don’t get much sleep these days, I replied.
I get so sad and I think it'd be easier not to be here and then I remember all the moments like deep belly laughs and pancakes for dinner and confetti on my toes and I hang on because I never want to leave here.