A deep yellow cloth journal waits for me on my desk. It is unlined with eggshell pages, thick and ready. Nothing I could write, however, would bring it to life and birth it a soul. It needs blood ink and pain, and a truth I don’t know how to conjure. I don’t feel authentic, not yet. I am still writing the story of who I am in words undefined and unspoken. My journal wants living, dark red ink and my pain so it can breathe. My pen is not ready, it still feeds the pages with lifeless ink. My journal needs the plasma from my veins and the sun and moon of my soul.

© zaji, 2016

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