She wrote in grey and black, the ink flowing from her fingertips like the blood flowing in her veins. She wrote of places of safety and danger, typed away the insecurities and questions on her mind. Writing away the bullies who weren’t worthy of a single word spoken, thought, or erased from time. She wrote of love and friendship and everything good. And when she wrote, she felt alive. She felt like she was on fire, burning with a thousand questions, a million words, and hundreds of beautiful stories. She wrote like the very next second her writing would be washed away by a wave from one of the many storms of the world. And as she bled from her fingertips, she wrote away her pain. As her mind ran a million miles a minute, she wiped the tears from her eyes, wondering why she’d been crying at all. She found a better use for pen, keyboard, and pencil. Writing to release everything and become something. When she finally looked up from the pages she’d written, she felt satisfied as she let the words forever pent up and eating away at the insides of her soul flow off the pages and out into the world that had inspired her to write. And as she read, she wrote more. She wrote and wrote and wrote and when she brought her pen to write the very last punctuation dot, she smiled because she wasn’t just a girl. She was a story well written.