You to me are a pen. Not elegant, nor exaggerated, costing only a nickel at the drugstore. Don’t misunderstand me, you are not cheap. You are simple, mechanics even I understand. Slick across paper, filling white space with meaning. At the times when I most need you (an exam, an essay) you fail me. When all your ink drips away, you scratch across the page, leaving ragged ghosts behind.
You don’t need me. I need you.
Your edges are smooth and round, mine sharp and painful; too pointed in a portrait of fine ink blots. Your outer shell is stiff, unyielding, but inside a liquid center waits. You do not move in scribbles and dashes, you are not the one with which to sketch. Your mistakes may only be erased in ugly scars and sticky white paint. But you need no erasing. You cut paper without ever breaking the white surface, ripping through the emptiness with daring streaks of blue and black. When I touch what you have left behind, I feel nothing at all. You allow those who choose you to feel as if they are in control, but what appears on the paper is only what you allow. It’s hard not to see you everywhere; on desks, in drawers, atop shelves. I find that if it was ever my wish to forget you, I would find only a blank page left to fill.
You are not my pen, but you will always write my story.