the story begins like any other.
with a black pen and a brown-paper notebook,
a miscellanea of broken thoughts,
a fraction of the collected pieces,
as transparent as glass,
shattered in a fit of rage.
crimson words, let them drawl from her mouth, instead, lace the tip of her tongue, drip from her lips, steadily splash on to empty pages, drip,
like bees to a pot of honey, a swarm of stories cross the precisely lined paper, her heart their puppet master.
gagging on locution,
written to a girl, from a girl, who wanted to be heard by herself,
more than any other,
but to listen to stories most pivotal,
first, you had to swallow them.
her whimsical mind created a game,
writing only the words that scream loudest in her psyche, only the words crying for an escape, cursive letters for a cursing mind, only to ruminate smudging the thoughts, only to ruminate smudging the game, only to be the player with a folding hand of cards.
anon, a rumpled page, the perfect game ball,
rested in her dainty hands,
its white blush pervades the air around her, marrying the musky perfume of tendrils of fresh ink, that drift from the brown-paper notebook.
in the beginning,
a collection of broken thoughts, ludicrously galloping across the paper's embrace,
merely an ending game to the crude fragments of her disposition,
with her words and with her wits,
the beginning will be utterly akin.