“If a writer falls in love with you, you can never die.”
Yes, they will scribble you in the depth of every corner, they will bury you deep inside their bones, keep your safer than their souls, but wilder than their strands of hair. Yes, you will be a subject that’ll keep them awake for hours at night and make their hearts addicted to your breath. But what did they say about the writers when you leave? It’s nothing special honey, they’ll still immortalise you, bury you in words, squeeze their hearts out, try to sleep in between wiping out memories and crashing down their dreams; try to scratch you away, but you’ll be a red, itching boil for a long, long time and a scar for eternity. They will empty themselves out in vessels of poetry they’ll shape according to the pieces of you you’ve left in them, piercing like pieces of broken glass. One fine day, they’ll scoop you out and place you carefully on the shelf, among other things that are a little rusty in their gray matter, but never really gone.