Love is a carnation.

It can see through my eyes, staring at blank pages and redlined margins for months on end now. It tries harder, coming in only through my eyes and ears, rarely seeping off my tongue. My finger shake with futility. The pen moves slightly forming nonsensical lines. they are jagged, quickly contrived, and harmless; innocent – not me. I am on the inside, pushing fervently under my own skin through fingertips, holding everything in place.