6

Like that time when her wrist bled as she typed and revised and felt and thought through the words that formed through her fingers.  Red streaks layered upon the matte silver surface as her hands moved across the keyboard like a concert pianist. She wanted it to sound just right. Not to be correct, but to be truthful. Once her heart had bled onto her page, she saw that her body had done the same and she understood for the first time - art is worth bleeding for.

- Still, Between