Poetry

When a pen rested softly in her hand, life flowed through her arm onto the page, creating something from the chaos she held at bay.

“Oh, how a pen was meant to be held in her hands,” her best friends would say.

Yet, she was also born to carry a sword, destroying the life that she brought into the world, guaranteeing a burial of honor she'd never asked for.

“Oh! How much she would've loved to be forgotten,” her best friends would say.