Graphite

I guess, dear Olavia, that you are condemned to walk around with a pencil stuck in your heart.

Try wrenching it out—you’ll die within minutes. You will have to let it vibrate with every beat, accept it as a part of you. Perhaps if you let the graphite meld with your blood, one day you’ll be able to transfer your bruises onto paper. And if you can stand it, pain will have acquired a whole new meaning.

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