As I was waiting for the clock to strike twelve
I found my hand writing an unfamiliar word
My final dialogue with my one true self
I fought with it, I thought
But it never lasted this long

Twenty five hours, I’ve been writing nonstop
Slowly feeling numb
My fingers were giving up
But my mind wouldn’t stop
So, for the next seventy-five hours
The blood got stuck in my hand
And blisters started showing their own life
But there’s no stopping anytime soon…

After thirty minutes, one of the blisters popped
Then slowly blood covered my pen,
Soaked the paper red
Left no mark of any written text
Then I stopped.

A tear fell

It made some ripples across the blood stains

I smiled.

I said a short prayer of relief
I had my final story
No memories of me left
But a splatter of blood and a soaked bunch of paper
Neither a book nor a memory

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