I used to love to draw.

Faces that only existed in me became a reality (and a more solid one than I ever was).

These lines didn’t have to follow any given criteria. They just had to follow my hand.

Uneven and bloated, clumsy and unwarranted, it didn’t matter.

The lines were mine, as I filled in the cracks of the paper with the parts of myself I was free to distort and give away.

One day I tried to draw and realized there were no parts of me left to give away.

The graphite stopped clinging to the paper and started clinging to my skin.

Soon, I was made entirely of it.

I started to stain the things around me, to fill in the cracks of those around me.

Control was now a fantasy word. And a mocking one at that.

Joy was now little more than a cold threat.

No matter how many times I tried to draw myself into existence, I wouldn’t come to life.

Stumbling.

Even though I was the one who had the power to draw, it began to feel like the pencil was in charge.

I had never realized I had cracks to fill before I could ever truly be alive.