The thoughts come sharp,
like glass in my hands.
I don’t fight them,
I set them down.

Ink takes the blade from me,
presses it flat
against white paper,
silent and still.

The page does not bleed,
does not break,
it only listens,
and closes quietly
when I am done.

So I leave my storms there,
bottled in margins,
tucked in a spine.

And when I rise,
my hands are lighter,
my mind a little quieter,
my skin untouched.