"I'm going to write today,"
I told myself as I gripped my pen tightly.
The white piece of paper in front of me looked fresh and welcoming;
Inviting me in with open arms.
And when I pressed my pen onto it,
It felt like a press of a button,
Or a switch you wanted to press for a very long time
But never got the chance to do so.
I told myself that I am going to write today as I pressed my pen harder on the paper
And the ink made an appearance,
Like a drop of watercolour on the ever empty page,
as if it were a canvas.
It looked like a drop of rain,
A stain of black tea that spread itself slowly on your white clean dress
while you watched it helplessly.
It looked like drops of tears that smeared across your cheeks,
at the hem of your shirt as you tried to muffle the sounds,
escaping your chapped lips under the dim light of the bathroom.
The ink looked like the first drop of blood
blooming on your wrist as you slit it open.
I dropped the pen and left.
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