Ink-Stained Hands

Her heart, untouched, overlooked

Invisible thoughts in her head 

A silent, unread, storybook

Pages unturned, a sheet of dust, 

But within her pages unfold,

She sees the author she thought.

Facing the mirror, expecting 

A monster 

An evil soul, who had written her story 

There she stands face to face 

Not a beast nor anything evil 

A soft soul, a desperate being

A fragile girl 

Who wants what she wants.

Who is, who I am. 

Her anger faded, leading her to the mirror,

She sees the jumbled mess of history

Pens of old, never new

The pages tell her story, 

The horrors unfold once again 

She looks forward 

Ignoring the past 

Plastered on the floor. 

She lifts the pen, soiling her hands

She pays no mind,

She moves the pen across the paper

Tainted by past mistakes 

She moves with purpose and dedication. 

Giving a garnish to splatter 

Shaping her past from pain to beauty

No longer a character

Now the author.