My dear little one,
did the words whisper to you their genius?
did they chant words of
only living once,
days of poisoning your body,
love of men between sheets,
and the desire of love,
between your lips,
of cutting bonds,
Did they tell you to keep writing?
pleading that you were the one hurt all along,
little girl,
too young to know
you know too little
and too foolish see
that we,
we've breathed this air for years now;
and just because these words whisper,
doesn't mean they never lie
these narrations
of veiled in thoughts
biased and bleeding,
just because you think it,
doesn't mean it's right
just because you've written it,
doesn't mean you're a writer.