Not all wells are empty, Guy. You have a way of punching one in the gut with just the right line:
until you are beaten up,
lips looking a healthy shade of red.
Sucks you in, deeply, and much against your will. And to answer your I'm sure rhetorical question - you write, because you must... Because you don't run out of words for as long as pain is there. And beauty. And love. Not even in the darkest of dark spaces we go to.
You don't run out of words. But you can run out of new words. This piece came to be in part because I thought, "I'm still feeling what I felt when I wrote Scar Tissue. I can just point to that. Because I don't have anything to add," and that led to this poem. I wrote so many words on the pain a decade ago, elsewhere. So many tens of thousands of words.
Beauty, sure. Ice and sharp glass are also beautiful. But you can run out of love, I fear.