I am an inkwell.
I am a pen.
I am some paper
Thrown out to start again.

My eyes are night skies.
My eyes are Draco.
My eyes are Orion.
My eyes are Leo.

My mind is a bookshelf.
My mind is a swarm.
My mind is all colors,
And words without form.

My heart is a child
That cries late at night.
My heart is a mother
That soothes and holds tight.

I am the letters
Written before the dawn.
I am the wall
So often leaned on.

But I am not your fireplace.
A pit to dump your sorrows.
I am no library of strength.
I have none for you to borrow.

I am not some sentient ear
Who can take in all you say.
I am not a Kevlar vest.
Your bullets don’t ricochet.

Your words are all dead weight to me.
And they lodge inside my gut.
Lead pellets that I’m swallowing
Left in my core to rot.

And now look what you’ve asked of me!
To spit back soothing tunes.
You are not a friend to me
Why should I be one for you?

And now I am the hypocrite
Who shouts out in the night.
The preacher who has lost his faith.
A drunk, looking for a fight.

In loneliness we’re blind and deft
Strangers groping in the dark.
Corpses shouting and clawing and ripping
at even the smallest spark.

I am not your savior.
I am not your Christ.
And I cannot save you all
Though try and try I might.

To pull you from the darkness.
To give you back your sight.
To lead you from this desert.
This endless, tortured night.

But I am just an inkwell.
I am just a pen.
So throw away your letters.
Don’t write to me again.