Photo by Jason Long

I’m a writer of variety, she says.

I write everything I see.

But in all her stories,

I see a little bit of me.

With each story that she writes,

She pulls out a thorn.

A small something buried deep,

A long-forgotten pain.

She writes feverishly at times,

Almost like a maniac,

Stopping hardly to breath

As her fingers heal by pen.

Now I am all sore

With open wounds all over,

The writer sits by, satisfied;

A wet smile sits on her face.