Memoirs of a Dying Flame

It’s been four days. Four days since I started baring a red map of despair on my arm. I’ve tried to write the story of my map on paper with red ink, but the words never finish. I’ll start the story and never finish it. I’ll be distracted from my task by an assignment or somebody’s words; I’ll forget what I’m doing. And then when I come home, I remember why I was writing those red words on the white and blue binder paper when I’m unlocking the tiny safe that holds my pencil. My tool for drawing the map.