They found me sleeping,
over a cluttered table,
ink-stained fingers still clutching
the sharp instrument
of my trade.
Why do you do this, they asked,
Why do you sacrifice yourself?
is to be lived, they whispered,
screwing the cap onto the glass bottle
ink, which held words
only I could release and set free
on immaculate paper, still
from newly shed tears.
Writing is easy, I whimpered,
the living that's hard.