Having given up on sleep, the writer settled onto the couch with her notebook, writing quickly in cursive and slashing out forbidden letters, half-written names. The messier the better. At five words or so per line, the pages were covered quickly, making it seem as if she had “gotten out” more than she would have in a notebook with wider pages and less space between the blue squiggles.
I’m trying to forget you. I think about you every time I pick up a book or a pen or…I would not have tried to cry on your shoulder. But my cool letters lie: I cry about you on other people’s shoulders.
Me 1: This is going on and on. I’m not sure what this is. As literature, it is bleeding on the page.
Me 2: But I am bleeding! Why not put it on the page?
Me 1: Go to a hospital.