The pen was an extension of her hand.
The line between skin
and dull plastic disappeared.
Words bled from the ballpoint,
her own blood poured out on the page
She filled page after page,
stanzas, epics, novels.
She ran out of paper.
She ran out of ink.
She ran out of words.
Her pen bled dry
and it would not breathe her words.
Instead, they were trapped in her head,
gathering dust with neglect, no way to connect.