The piece of paper lays crinkled in my stained hands.

There is a blister between my thumb and forefinger.

It reminds me of strength and power, and that is why I am glad to see it.

I set the paper back down on the desk.

And I write some more.

The pen shifts between my hands, rubbing against all the sore spots.

The pain fuels me, makes me move faster.

I must finish.

Must finish.

Must finish.

To be finished.  What a lovely thought.

When I am finished, I write another one.  

The ideas flow to my head before I can comprehend them.

I must finish.

It must be perfect.

I must never stop.

My hands ache and tears form in my eyes.

Tears of exasperation, of frustration, but never of pain.

I don't acknowledge the pain.

Pain

Pain 

Pain

There is no pain.  I keep writing.

The blood throbs in my hand.

Stronger now.

I keep writing.

There is no pain.

A single drop of blood begins to form in the center of my blister.

There is no pain.

No pain

No pain

No pain

I keep writing.

I must never stop.

There is no pain.

A pool of red forms below my hands.

The paper is stained.

I grab a new sheet.

The pencil shifts and scratches me.

There is no pain.

The paper is stained.  The blood is flowing freely.

I do not acknowledge it because 

There is no pain.