The Feminist - Written November 12, 2008

She carves her identity in ink.

Neat rows of letters march across the page, uniform and elegantly curved. They bend at her will; they are fluent.

Only she can see them.

Poised at the center of her imagination is a pencil. It pivots near disaster. It lands on tragedy. Often it is attracted to the bizarre mind of a romantic, where the strings of reason become brittle.

Heartfelt words linger in her thoughts, for she loves with her mind. Her heart is merely an organ, as unimportant to her as the very lungs she breathes with. For, though they are vital to her life, they are not her lifeline.

Carefully, she turns the page. Wet images flash in unruly candle light. They smudge and become distorted, reflecting her turmoil. Words as significant as the sky are ruined, and she does not care.

Because she knows only she can see them.

The ink runs dry, and she does not finish her last word. It glimmers obscenely, a mark so destructive to her efforts that she retires.

Years later, when she is a part of history, her words are discovered.

And it is not until then that she is heard.