A little something that wouldn’t let me go to sleep last night until I had written it down.
She writes with the blood in her veins, but it is not blood that runs in her veins. It is ink.
And the ink gets heavier and thicker with each passing day.
With each day, her skin is parchment, something for the world with which to play.
And when the ink grows to thick and the burden to great, she sits down and takes up the pen.
She dunks the pen into the inkwell that is her heart and she writes and writes and writes.
Writes out all that pain of the passing days.
The sorrow, the anger, the love and the joy.
She writes it all down, until her heart is empty and there is nothing to write down anymore.
The papers stack up in her apartment, but she doesn’t throw them out.
Leaves them, until the ink pales and fades out.
Until the next time, when it all becomes too much and she has to write and write and write until she feels nothing again.
But why get up each morning then?
Why keep up the torture, the charade of being the world’s plaything again?
Because there is one thing the days tell her.
All the pain, the sorrow, the love and the joy.
They tell her that she is alive.
And she will be until her heart bursts because she can’t write anymore, until her skin overflows with the ink held within.
And so she writes and writes and writes, knowing that she is still alive because she can.