Ghost Writer

I am not the heroine of this story.

I am not the villain.

And yet it’s still so familiar being here, dropped off blindfolded at a different place in the telling of it. I’m wandering, arms outstretched, stubbornly refusing to take off the blindfold so I don’t have to see.

The ending.

Because this story we are writing is far more complicated than my last, with newer characters and heavier hearts, much bigger emotions than I am used to shaping metaphorically. I can create something out of nothing, turn dark into light with adjectives and clever syntax, but even the deftest of similies can’t erase what’s already been written.

And I’m shaking the pen, in a moment more desperately, and suddenly the ink is dry and I am left here with so many words and no way to compose the remaining chapters. I’m stuck here in a constant state of inhale.

Write it for me?

Finish it.

Don’t forget to write me into it?