Ink

Its evening.

kajal stains her fingers, bent in some places due to prolonged writing- a slight deformity. her nails have grown uncomfortably long- she resists the urge to chew at them. veins pop out, snaking their way along her hand, and its partly tanned skin.

her newly bought pen- barely a week old and refuses to lay a stream of ink on the paper she wrote on. she is upset, but not for long. she fishes out her pouch, she sew it with her own hands- and it is a rugged piece of art- if one can see it that way. her index finger and thumb now entrap a new pen, and she continues- ignoring the growing pain in her wrist, and neck, or the screaming from downstairs, of people arguing with one another, and one calling her name. 

she is not bothered. 

~An excerpt.

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