His name is Pen

I remeber sitting on the cold wood floor. I was afraid to sweat because i knew it would stng the fresh cuts on my arm. 

I had nothing, in a room full of toys, electronics, games and furnture, I had nothing.

It's almost as if everything and anything that could mean anything was blurred out of plain sight.

I thought. Better Yet I knew I was dying inside.

It wasent the fact that she beat me. It wasent the fact that I was so afraid that I'd wake up in the middle of the night just to see if she was standing over me. It was the fact that I had beaten myself.

I gave in.

See noone expects the pretty girl with new clothes to have any trouble. Noone knows that she cries an hour before school is over because she knows its time t go home. No.

And noone knows she scratches herself until she bleeds, because it's the only pain she can control.

Who could I talk to? Sound my trigger anger, anger turns to protecting myself from the belt. So, what did I do?

Laying on the floor, under the blured dresser, I saw something. It was long nd blue.

I reached for it.

What was it I reached for?

A pen?

So I found a index card and wrote my first oiece of poetry.

With every line, every stanza, every bit of rythem attatched to words, I healed.

I saved my self from myself.

I read, I became a book, with pages unwritten.

I fell in love with someone. Better yet something.

And his name is Pen.

Pen gave me what I needed to become who I am?

And who am I?

Well, Flip a page in the book of me to know........