The pen sullied my clean white soul,
Leaving deep scars behind it.
And then they cried,
Spilling black ink to mix with the crimson sap that leaked from my broken skin.
But still...
I  held the pen tightly,
Working tirelessly to include every suggestion, each word an agonizing incision.
And as the pen’s incisive crown diffused piercing anguish within me,
I cried.
Why does it hurt so bad to write these words? I’d wondered,
My story is  progressing  perfectly, just the way they all want.
I’m making them happy.
And yet, despite my onerous effort, they’d sneer, pulling my hand this way and that,
Never satisfied with the deep, beautiful gashes their tugs caused,
For years they cut me open, the pen’s violent tip to carving into my flesh.
The ink had gone, long ago dried up,
Every stroke now a vein of red.
Soaking me in my own stinging blood as I struggled to keep hold of the unlikely weapon.
My knuckles turned white as my grip on the pen tightened,
Until finally…
The bloodied pen shattered….
And with it so did I.
Spiderwebs of crimson wept as I pieced the pen back together.
I held it tenderly, my skin still oozing red,
And I decided something…  
No one would touch it but me.
Now, guiding the pen smoothy with an icy hand,
Every step I take, every quiet thought, drips down the way rain drips from a drunken sky.
Each breath becomes a new verse,
Each whisper stains my healing skin with fresh ink.
And there, over ruby streaks, frozen into beautiful scars, I write the story of my life…