It’s such a simple thing, but at one point it meant the difference between life and death. It can fit in my pocket, purse, backpack, wherever I need to store it. It’s nothing special, something that I just always have on hand. Its miniscule weight makes it almost feel nonexistent, but I know it’s there. The ink that flows from it weighs more than the world, because it’s my lifeline, gliding to the beat of my heart. That pen is who I am.

But it wasn’t always there to save me…

I was never good at expressing my feelings. I had learned from a young age how to keep them as secrets, to hide them away. When that pain hit, I just pursed my lips and smiled. I would try to make everyone happy while a hurricane rattled in my chest and an earthquake thrashed in my head. I would let my glasses hide the feeling in my eyes; I let them block the windows to my soul. I allowed my smile to suppress the truth caught in my throat. I let my hair envelop me and shield me from the world.

I locked myself in the room. That one no one else has seen, and probably never will. No light. No sound. Just pain and self-loathing painted across the walls and shattered on the floor. That monster would come out and whisper things to me from the corner-- “Just cut a little deeper… It can’t hurt that much… No one would care if you did.” That room consumed me and that monster ate my mind.

I knew I was broken, and, with a pen, I filled in the cracks with ink. I wrote myself a door out of that room. I wrote myself a life that looked hopeful. That pen became what carries my fears, pain, happiness, faith, hope, love, strength,and courage. It carries my soul. I may be the one toting it, but that pen carries me.

With pen in hand I will live. I will live to write grace, beauty, and hope across the universe. I have art to create, and with that pen I will bare my soul.