She Writes in White Ink

I've been instructed to write something "to make me happy."
The problem is, I have about 4 drafts in my folder right now, all of which are attempts of completing that goal. Of "making you happy".

I can't do it.



I can't summon up the type of rage that fuels razor-slice, gasoline-soaked words. Can't write the sort of icily composed letters that we bittersweet-broken women revel in. I can't do it, and I can't make you happy.
But I think I've always known that.

I can't make you happy. Nor can I make her happy. Hell, I can't make myself happy. I think the only person I've ever really made happy might be Him. And God, isn't that fucking ironic?
Though in a way, I'm not sure why it is.

But I'm tired. My eyelids ache with laughter and my retinas burn with dried tears. My head is too cramped, my skin stretched too thin, and I've nothing to do. There's nothing I can do. I surrender- "I'm done".

Throw the white flag up the mast, let me walk with my head hung low. I am broken and tired and cannot encourage anything more than mild apathy. Life has passed and it has won, and I am left with a shell. Don't get me wrong- I won't do anything stupid. There are no sleeping pills or razor blades in my future.
I'm just too tired to be angry.

Too tired to cry, and too tired to yell. Too tired to soothe with quiet curses and malicious phantasms, too tired to do anything more then waste these cold days away. The words won't, can't come to me, and if I can't write myself into being, a paper girl by definition, then what good am I?

The answer is none.

I am a paper girl; soaked by gasoline tears and battered by the winter winds of defeat. I am left with nothing more than pretentious prose and isolated nights, the way it has always been. But it seems more potent now, and I'm not sure what to do.

Don't know what I should do.

Because I can do nothing. Forgive me, I beg of you, but I cannot make you happy.