"To Whom It May Concern"

... and to anyone willing to listen.

The nib bit into the pale page, bleeding black. The metal mandible scraped against the paper, leaving scabs. Tattooing the inscription on her heart, she wrote with liquid night flowing from thin silver, etching dreams and aches on the thin slab.

Like a chisel chipping at marble, taking away to give shape to the formless, the parchment darkened with every whimpered word written on its once flawless, pure surface.

Marred and tainted as the authoress purged the hatred from the depths of her soul onto its fragile physicality.

Black like raven feathers and beautiful as blood diamonds, the frail papyrus cradled the secrets of her being on its body. Whether it is honored or disgusted, ashamed or disturbed, is unknown and irrelevant.

Blot these tears drawn in ink.

Heal these wounds made of words.

Soothe this imaginary soul that thrives in the mind alone.

And keep safe this heart existing on the page.

For the body is now tired, too weary, too worn.

And perhaps with the pen, the soul may live on after skin is slit and blood is poured.

- Ariadne Grey