When I was 5, it was the glitter gel pens. When I was 10, it was the felt tip pens.

When I was 13, it was the scented pens. Now, it's a single, brand name, black pen. You see, that pen bleeds as I do. The ink flows with a frightening urgency, letting out the pressure, that built up from years of being unused. She's just as much of a chameleon as I am, with ink made of blood, tears, and the gilded strings of my imagination.

I drew a picture of my mom at work with that pen. It now hangs in her cubicle, as if it was an achievement itself. We signed the adoption papers of my dog with that pen, adding a soul to our family. I wrote a love letter with that pen, to the person I thought was my soulmate. And once, I broke down and wrote a goodbye letter to the world with that pen.

Then 4 years later, I committed to a university, signed my 2nd degree black belt certification, wrote a log of my first solo travel, became a 3x world champion, and graduated high school with 2 degrees, with that pen.

It wrote a few chapters of my life, a prelude for everything about to come. That pen lived and breathed as I did. And when it finally emptied, drained of the ink that ave it sustenance, I was faced with a difficult choice. I could lay it to rest, smiling at the irony that I couldn't write its elegy which is the very thing it was made to do: write. Or, I could refill it, I could give it a new life.

So tell me, what would you do? in the never ending battle of life, death and the urgency of self-expression, what would you do? Because the tears and ink dry, the blood and pigment fades, but our souls and imagination never do, they are always in need of a release. If the past is on one side and the future is on the other, what would you do?

I was picked up

I was put down

Click

Tap

As I made contact with the paper

It was constant

I was happy.

I rose

I fell

I waited

To be lifted

once again

For I hadn't been used

in a long time.

So I waited,

hanging there, staying there,

expecting there

to be

a change,

but none arrived.

I was misused

Practically thrown away

but somehow I was seen

and so I was wielded once more

by the next person

who happened to pick me back up

Off of the ground.

Sure, I was lost,

but now I was found.

You've used me

Far too greatly

Now I'm dried up

And tossed aside.

Together we went

On such wild adventures

What wonderful journeys we saw

For you to be so ungrateful

To the one that gave life

To the words that hate

And then love.

Tossed in the trash

Nothing gold ever lasts

Replaced by a cheap replica.

Put me up to a flame

Save me for a few days

But the well's dry

I've nothing to give

For all that I gave you

I will not be saved

This is the thanks that I get

It’s the way you can’t put me down, I think, that makes me feel the most loved.

Physically, I am as much a part of you as your words, the ones you breathe in from me and whisper out into another, regrets curling out of your mouth and wisping away into the air. I fill you and nurture you to want me (do you still want me?), lighting up with every touch of your lips.

My gentle love is a lifelong addiction, so hold me in your palm and introduce me to every part of your world and let me inhabit it as inextricably as I inhabit you. I need you to need me so much that when I’m gone all you can think about is replacing me with me with me. I hope I can make you long for me a little more desperately with every incarnation, but still,

I know our time together will never be enough, because I am finite and you are forever.

The first time was the strangest

As the cool desk chilled my sides and paper tickled my feet

But I found my purpose helping the hands that held me find theirs

And upon the pages I danced

Led by the grip that warmed me

So many hours were spent

White pages no longer pure

Then there was the night I felt empty

And from me the ink no longer spilled

On the table I lay static and cold

But by purpose was fulfilled