My thoughts grab me like the hook of an ethereal story, 

But this one doesn’t have words and instead feelings. 

This one has hands like vines that entangle me at every attempt of escape. 

Each page another tremble, 

Each chapter another earthquake. 

It speaks its own language but I somehow understand it.

Not the words themselves but the way my body feels every vowel like some sort of sick hug. 

It became me. 

Before I knew it I was trapped in an endless novel of my own mind.

I know I have to keep writing my story.

Not with a pen of pain or stencil of sorrows either.

Instead, invisible ink

Just to make sure when I go back looking for all the exquisite things I wrote I won’t seem to find them.

A twisted joke of entrapment.

However, I’ve come to realize that the beauty of a good book is always hidden within its flaws. 

It isn’t the happy ending that carries it but the beautiful brokenness of everything being a mess that brings it to life. 

It isn’t the flawlessly portrayed words but instead, the annotations added messily inside the margins.

It’s the grace of interpretation without intent. 

I try to cover the ink but it still has a hold of me.

It is me.

So perfectly molded into anything except perfect.

I can’t escape it because it’s who I am.

I  hope I’m in the chapter on making peace with that.