alaskas poem: ink flows out of my pen as often as blood flows out of my wrists.
Chapter One
I sat there staring at my blank computer screen as the line where the magic words came out didn't flow. I had nothing to write about. my mind was somewhere else but it was foggy so i couldn't make out where exactly. I had no inspiration, you see young soul, for she is gone and out of my life. I miss her dearly and don't ever say i didn't. Ever. All I've got left of her is her journal of painfully sad and beautiful poetry. all of it written when i wasn't there to help her. That and the picture of her scars on her heart (and wrist) engraved into the back of m brain so that every time i close my eyes, the picture haunts me. I wonder what shes doing right now. Probably sitting outside reading a book by a fire and listening to some band with lyrics deeper than the sea. Or, contemplating life and the meaning of it and how humans work emotionally. One of the very many things i remember about her is her constant thinking. Now this isn't a terrible thing at all. No, it was quite entertaining. She'd be telling me a story of what had happened today or summarizing a book that she had finished or wanted to read and she would just stop talking and get lost in her own world that i yearned to visit. She would never let me of course, believe me, i have asked many times. But enough about me I'm being selfish. This story isn't about me I'm merely the boy to tell it and that is all. This story is about a girl who was named by herself. Alaska May.
