Words, Ugly.

I write ugly words. I write the words that etch away from the pages and twist themselves around your ventricles, squeezing till the blood screams silent. I write the ugly words, the ones that gagged you in the night. My pen composed your pseudo-sane nightmares, wrought the inkwell veins that flowed through you in the last scrapes of day’s fading light. My ugly words, they worked by candlelight, pulling wool and masking the hazel in your eyes. My ugly words, they could disconnect your ligaments, pull you apart, but they could put you back together again. How much is your soul worth? My ugly words, they’re making your heart pump faster, setting your chest ablaze. They’re making your ribcage rattle hollow, rattle ugly. Vales and veils tumble around in your brain, electric pulses exploding every which way. My ugly words, my disgusting, vile, repulsive, sickening words, they’re scaring you. I can feel your bones quake, trembling violently under the thick covers that are only half the reason you’re in a cold sweat. Your fright falls upon the deaf night. What’s the matter baby? I only write ugly words.