I have yet to truly live my life.
I sit in my room, gazing at my pen, my weapon.
The bane of my existence.
My cocoon.
My choice.
As I write in my journal, I ask myself, "What do I have to sacrifice in order to move ahead?"
A dark chuckle ripples through my room and I look at my reflection.
As I am clad in a white robe, my mirror is clad in black.
Holding black.
Being black.
The only truth is the gold pen in her hand.
"Sacrifice," she murmurs in a venomously sweet voice. "All things require a sacrifice. Why should the pen be any different?"
Red lips curl up into a smile but her eyes did not. All
they did was bore.
"Perfection is not controlled. Perfection is raw. Sacrifice for your desire, or your desire will be sacrificed."