Meant to See

Here the letters will stay.
Come and see them
lost on the page,
created by my aging veins.
If I cannot keep them,
I'll still have imagination
soaked into my bones.
Such delicate pages
hold all I have collected
along the way of
ten thousand lifetimes.
Sleepy eyes waking.
Stretching my tired hands.
Writing was just
the ache I was born for.
No matter what hate you bring,
I will no longer
be afraid to come home
and bleed myself dry
onto white parchment.
I won't stop bleeding
until you understand
that my every word
is what you were
meant to see.