To the ink stains on my hands

You are strewn
all across my palm
Unequally though
Seeing which I wonder
if I defined equality... correctly... ever

I do not wash you off
For you are no dirt
You are the words
I was never able to scribble
You are the phrases
That I couldn't use
because my courage had boundaries

I don't write rhymes
I write out myself
Call it deceiving or hiding
I am deft at it
in this wordly world
It's poetry to the pages
But only I know
That it's my heart
Like always it's wrapped in
illegible handwriting
incomprehensible sentences

My ink stains you are too real to be painted
And I am too afraid to reveal the real shade
You are the reality
that my fiction is based on
You won't be washed off
You will be looked at
with anxiety
fear
helplessness
a little bit courage
And with a lot lesser love
But you will never be washed off

You... my ink stains
will always be the part of my poetry
You... my ink stains
complete all these poetries

You are my power, stains
You are me.

©tia_writz