Written by Franchesca Blackrose
Ink stains my skin as I write and write and write. My hand cramps as the words transfer themselves from the voice inside my head to the paper it’s pressed against. The pen nib scratches away, marring the pristine page with what I have to say.
My words aren’t perfect, written or voiced. I scribble words out in place of something better—more fitting. The words that come out of my mouth have an impact, but the words that I write will last forever.
What started small became large and vibrant. The way I scrawl my words against paper reflects the various accents that flow from my lips. I have a lot of things to say, as my internal universe is way too big. So whether it’s ink-stained or vocally-strained, my words will be heard long after I live.
Text © Franchesca Blackrose
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