The words on her mind break the silence.
They cut through her dank thoughts.
The ink cuts through the paper like blood on snow,
and she is reminded of the days when a melting snowman was talk.
Her words give her purpose
and she pours them onto the page,
that little Mason Glass of thoughts pours.
Pours like a river,
a stream, an earthquake cutting through the dry earth.
She doesn't need anyone to love these words,
because they are hers,
they are cutting through the silence like fire and water.
They are enough.