Pen

I use the pen for therapy. Thumb on the click, waiting for small permission to begin.

The therapist says name the feeling. I give it a body, a cloud, a line break. A longer draw

from whatever keeps my hands steady. I refill the same hurt into a cleaner container and call it progress.

I write until the room goes soft, until even my rage becomes vapor, until the sentence leaves me lighter.

There’s a version of me that goes to notebooks. Another that goes to smoke.

I charge it by the window. Carry the calm back into my mouth.

I don’t want to be dramatic. I want to be functional. So I use the pen for therapy

and I mean that as precisely as I can.