Relapsing yet again. Injecting more ink from her heart and out of her hand. So much writing that her fingers becomes swollen. Water burns and bandages itch. It bleeds out pain and bliss unlike no one could ever hope to understand.
From the start to finish it overwhelms her. Surfing the skin and bringing chill bumps with pleasure outlining each hair. But afterward its always a fight to stay warm. She wonders how could it feel this wrong.
It hurts to breath as her stomach decides to be sick. The end always leave her feeling so defeated. It disgusting to see the hold it has on her. Instead of the hold she supposed to have on the pencil. Because the only cure she has for the stinging, the only ointment available to heal the wounds caused by her obsession is more writing.