One day I bought a large pack of pens, on sale.
Their ink flowed smoothly. The smart, hexagonal prism form fit snugly between my fingers.
They broke in my knapsack. 14 of them, and scarcely any left unscathed. I cannot throw them out. I don’t. Sometimes I want to.
Instead, I write with them, feeling as the shards of broken plastic crackle dangerously between my fingers; the jagged, in-folding sides never again to feel strong, smooth, and sure.
This pen has already been through too much, it can’t break now!
This pen has been through so much, it will have to break soon!
My heart starts to pound.
What does it mean if it snaps? What will I do? What will become of it?
What will become of me?
I hold it ever more gingerly now, avoiding..that unthinkable..
That I just cannot see past.