What Dies Without Me
I'm afraid of what might come off the page. I'm also afraid of what won't. The writer isn't blocked; the writer has blocked everything off.
I'm afraid of what dies without me. Where my loving hands can't reach and my warm soul can't touch, and I have to watch it fade like it never existed. Or maybe, it never really did.
I'm afraid of the things I think but don't say. The unrealized realizations. The hesitation. Because whether it's true or real or not, it's going to gnaw and eat my insides until it spills out.
Spills onto the page, which I'm afraid to look at because I'm sure I couldn't save it anyway.