once upon a time

there was a girl who fell in love 

with the sound of pencil scratching on paper,

the therapeutic scraping of graphite on its pages

tucking her away

as it promised an escape

made entirely of stories written in the dark

she wrote 

through her father’s crackling storms, 

the agonizingly volatile winds 

of her parents’ enraged cries

that seemed to lash over without warning, 

the relentless downpour of salty rain 

that occasionally seeped from her mother’s exhausted eyes

she wrote

letting her pencil guide her 

through the mist of uncertainty 

that often shrouded her future 

in a thick veil of grief;

the scratching of the pencil

cutting through

the unabated shouting

splitting the house in half

she wrote

as a release

watching her home being demolished around her, 

letting the pages be the eye of the hurricane,

clinging to the belief that she would be strong 

                              that she wouldn't be swayed by the winds

                              that she would wait, patiently

when it was finally time to rebuild

                                       reconnect

                                       reconcile

she wrote 

until her hands grew stiff, 

calluses blooming on her otherwise smooth, silky hands

but the girl didn’t mind, 

knowing that the calluses marked her skin 

as proof of her creations

as stretch marks adorn the skin of a proud mother

but as it became clear that the day to rebuild 

would probably never come

as she was finally swept up into the storm,

the last of the strength seeping from her eyes

as her depression hit

world draining of color

drop

by

drop,

she compensated for the lack of hope,

the numbness

with the holes in her body

to cut out the pain

lurking far beyond her skin

feeling herself leak away

drop

by

drop

with every fight

even as the days spent with the pencil grew seldom,

the triumph of writing a story

a long distant memory,

a forgotten tune, perhaps

the girl could feel another part of her,

waiting patiently, 

letting the days slip through her bloodstained fingers,

still hopeful, perhaps

because 

she knew

beyond the fights

beyond the pain

beyond the ruins that was once a home

somewhere deep inside,

her stories whisper on