Prompt: write about how you cope
ometimes 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.”
But instead,
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.

November 2015