Each night I fall asleep
with a pen clutched in my hand,
holding on for dear life
because without it
I’m a broken nothing.
It’s the best part of me,
extending from my trembling fingers
to scribble away at my dark history.
Maybe if I cover my flesh
in figurative language
I will finally feel beautiful,
a task it’s taken me 20 years
to not accomplish.
I know the possibility is slight,
but perhaps those lovely phrases
could reconfigure the ugly hiding
inside my rib cage and hollow bones.
Monsters are always ugly,
even when they have a pretty face,
but a pen can rewrite any story.