Marked

Sometimes
it won’t come.
Sometimes it’s as easy
as sitting down
and everything spills out.
Sometimes
it’s like drawing blood
from a dry vein.
Searching for it
collapses what might’ve been useful,
and then it spills,
but it spills
in the wrong place,
and it can’t be used.
A bruise of words,
clotting up internally,
leaving me
the only thing marked
by something I feel
should mark the world.

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