Shining through
the blank pages of my mind
are the angry words
I wish
I could shout at you.
Or at anyone.
But I keep them inside
and let the red rays
of my rage and hurt
build quietly behind
the shut covers of my mouth,
staining the pages like blood.
This crimson book
rides high in my head,
writing itself with every breath.
You ask to read
the pages of my mind
and wonder
that I do not speak
that I only walk away.
How can I tell you
that opening my book to you
would burn us both
to ashes?

Penned by my hand on the 21st of Miraman, in the year 246 AF.