Expectations have been my downfall, and my choices have led to predictable disappointment more than I care to admit. Perhaps that’s why it irks me to no end when the ink of a good pen runs dry prematurely. I expect more of them, frankly.

Like life, so the pen writes. I wax poetic as I reach into my desk drawer to retrieve another from my stash and find disappointment. A lone red pen is all that remains. Red ink is as offensive to the page as an overcooked metaphor.

I compose the hard bits in longhand. Maybe blood-colored ink isn’t that inappropriate. I take up the pen.

Bracing brave, I press deep into the first stroke and watch the line break dark.

Something about the drag of a 0.7mm tip across the roughness of a vintage page’s pristine face soothes as it buffers the bed stone for the ugly that sullies the surface in service to my story. The effect is curious.

I’ve heard it’s unwise to tell one’s story before the bleeding stops, but I disagree. Scabs are, by nature, temporary, and I’m no longer afraid of scars.

So, I wield my pen, risk the bleed, releasing the word-get of wound. The motion of pen and hand gliding over the page feels dissociative. I watch, mesmerized, as it cauterizes what seeps out in the retelling.

There, now. This is how I will tend wounds from here on. I promise. The split always precedes the scar. Faster now, I write wild, watching blood turn to flame, pen to wand. Finally, I am butterfly fierce, and that changes everything.