After everything, after all the late nights and agonizing deadlines,
after the sleep deprivation and writer’s block and spilled ink,
why do writers keep coming back
to the very thing that refuses to love them?
They rip out their hearts and they hand them to their work
without ever asking for anything in return.
And maybe they’ll get their heart back and maybe they won’t,
but no matter what happens
there will always be so many skeletons in their closet.
Writers ache all the time; they’re constantly
heavy with the weight of words.
Do they dream in letters, in consonants and vowels?
When they make love is it broken up into syllables?
Writing is the very definition of unrequited love,
for when writers spill their soul onto the paper,
it’s gone forever.