Bleed

The little letters on the floor,
Ripped and scattered.
Some went under the bed,
some went near the door.

Words were scribbled,
on every paper that is laid.
Huddled in the corner is the writer,
Holding herself tightly together.

Too many pens were broken,
none of them stood a chance.
The sharp plastic tore through her skin,
there she wept with bloody hands.

The dim light made it harder to see,
but her toes felt the ink stained floor.
Her white dress soiled with black,
yet she doesn't care anymore.