Ink by Yas Bin Shaibah

Ash, cigarette butts, and stained coffee mugs. Tears are my ink. With you on my mind the ink is abundant.

Surreal, this all feels. 

What I type,
this mess of assorted stains,
I want to shout it,
scream it to you,
make you listen.

But instead I clench my fists at my side at the mere sight of you, and lock my jaw.

I’m crippled by pride.

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