Prompt: write about how you cope
sometimes when I think the razor looks so pretty in the 4am light that creeps through my translucent curtains,
and I think to myself,
“maybe it wouldn’t be too bad; I will feel better.”
I listen to her deep consoling voice go on about the way her ink spills on the tiny notebook she keeps in her bag,
while I take my pen and my own notebook,
and spill my own ink till the harsh sunlight finally brings out the rust in the razor and the beauty of tomorrow.