My soul bleeds. Painfully. Disturbingly. And I use it as ink to write. I write with my soul. My pen is not mine but a vessel for the trapped. And each letter spills onto the paper like shards of a shattered mirror, fragment of something once whole, now scattered beyond recognition. Chaos does not follow the law of order, and pain do not bow to logic. Hence, nothing I write ever ever makes sense. Afterall, these words are nothing, but lingering cries of a lost soul; pages that will never truly hold me.

And yet, I write. Because to stop would mean to drown in silence.