bleeding for the sake of writing...

This is the day I realized that my ink could never be the usual blue one you're used to, but red—since I only write honestly, truthfully, no matter how painful it is for me to write, for you to read.

No matter what, this ink is red because I bled every time I wrote, because I chose the painful truth instead of white lies written in blue, the kind that makes you feel melancholy to its fullest potential, unlike this red, which makes you feel just how real every word of mine is.

...

And all of the poems I've ever written, all those essays you've read, and my novels too...

All written in blood.

I bled unwillingly for most of my life.

And I couldn't let myself drown in the pool of my own blood, the one they left me in.

So, I found a way out.

I started writing.

I commenced this art form so I could survive.

And the words easily flew from my mind onto this paper.

They call me a writer, an author now, but all I am is a survivor of my own destiny, someone who refused to die without a purpose.

All this blood you read was never beautiful, as you usually tell me, nor is it poetical.

It is just blood.

And it's really, really red, true, honest.

It's me.

I am the blood you read, the ink that brought me out of certain death.

I am my own words, as painful and as true as they are.

That's me.

And I'm glad I met you.

But I am glad I managed to meet myself, too, finally.

I.L.

@Iviwrites