I am afraid to write.
I havent done it in so long that I wondered if my fingers were even capable of moving from one key to the next.

I am sad.
not just sadiwannacryaloneandwatchgreysanatomy.
But sadiwannacurlupandsleepfor2023daysandonlywakeupfromtimetotimetoseeifhumasstillexist.

I didnt realize I was this attached on something that wasnt real.
How does that happen anyways? How do people get attached to comfort? To warm hands? To a lifeless body?

How did I fall so hard and how did it not hurt when I hit the ground?
Why is the only pain I feel coming when I am standing up?
answer: because Im standing alone.

Fuck This.
Its time for a story.

Lolia was born into the only chalk family in town.
Unlike her father, who only had a hand made of chalk, Lolia's whole body was made with this white, dusty substance.
She broke easiely.
She changed colors frequently.
She was stolen.
Hurt.
Alone.
But.. alive.

Point of view switch.
This one blows.

I am made of chalk.
I have chalk hands, chalk lips, and a brain that's not even worth describing.
I see new people, new blackboards that I can write on with my perfectly new chalk hand. I got it in the mail yesterday and I was thrilled. It had been thirty-eight days since my last arm was glued on and I was beginning to look like a mannequin does in the summer time.
Anyways.
It was there that I saw her.

The only day when the sun decided to share its rays.
When the clouds decided to part their ways.

I wanted to write all my best words on her board, use all of my favorite fonts, and vary the size depending on their importance.
I wanted to know her, to love her, to place her in my heart and make her my world.

But months past and the newness of her board faded. I had scribbled too many things.
Some mean.
Some nice.
Some of no importance at all.

I had gone thru four hands, 6 erasers, and then she left.
I didnt see it coming for my eyes werent made to see between the lines.
My fingers werent designed for paper.
My heart wasnt designed for love.
My arms werent designed for affection.
But
here I am nonetheless.
Standing
alone
in
the
rain.

And as I look down I see different shades of people I've erased bleeding together on an uneven surface.
My arm is soaked.
My other arm has dissolved.
and once again I must journey back to the mailbox.
back to the beginning.
I walk slowly.
I take my time
I open the box and I close my eyes before I can look and see what color I can ruin next.