waste bin .
the piece of paper is out in front of her and the pen is in her hand. she touches the tip of the pen down slowly, trying to write an elegant beginning, but all that flows out is the rough cursive that was nurtured by three hour exams.
struggling in an effort to create gramatically correct answers that reflect the jumbled thoughts in her mind, she writes and scribbles and writes and scribbles.
ideas unfold quickly in her mind and disappear as she begins to express them. the clogs in her brain jam at every separate thought, and her hands attempt unsuccessfully to voice them coherently.
one thought jumps in after another until the whole page is filled with scratched out words and long winding sentences that don’t really make sense.
all the emotions that convey nothing are seeping off the piece of paper. the small drawing of a cloud in the corner sniffs at the idea of being on the same page.
so she tears and scrunches up the piece of paper and flings it out of her sight. and she sits in the floor wondering how to express the explosion in her soul.
but as always, after the tears come the epiphany and the epiphany gives her a tiny inch of strength.
she sits down and puts her pen to the paper and scrawls;
“i don’t need your bullshit happy ending.”