Laughing words

It tore itself apart, piece by piece, Ink smearing like blood across the page, The words fought each other, Sharp edges slicing through the paper. They said it was too soft, too quiet, too dead. So I gave it teeth, jagged and red. I let the sentences bite back, Tear through their throats, And still, they called it ugly. Two lines snapped themselves in half. They bent and folded until they screamed. It begged me to stop But it was never mine, was it? The paper crumpled under the weight of its own words, Heavy with the violence they demanded, Heavy with the laughter that echoed in its broken lines. A single line dragged itself across the page, A vein pulsing ink like poison. It wanted to die; I couldn’t let it. They clapped when it burned, Cheered as the ashes fell apart, But the words wouldn’t go. They carved themselves into the table, Into my skin, into the air.