there is black in her veins
pouring through the tips of her fingers
on to fine white sheets
line after line it seeps
forming beautifully shaped vessels
that carry her feelings
the pain begins only to be left upon the
flatness which is her medium
it comes again
more quickly now
but the black cannot come fast enough
for her emotions break through as though water passed a dam
the pages become splotched, and soiled
and toiling through her tears she cannot suppress her cries
left in a pool of memories
she falls back into her despair
as though she might try again.