The Effects of Friction

It felt like popping a blister. She placed pen to paper and her insides gushed out. She didn't even know she had so much to say. She wrote until the callus that had finally healed formed anew [The callus was caused by too many A-B-Cs in elementary school]. What she found though, was not relief. Instead, a new drug. The rush that came from creating something so clean and honest fed another, guiltier pleasure.

Page after page she began. One or two sentences at the most and she found herself without another word left to say. The blister had been drained and what remained was an empty pocket that stung her. To apply any pressure to the wound yielded nothing but dissatisfaction and a cruel reminder of past pleasure.

She vowed that she would treat it in the morning. Neosporin and some comfortable shoes for a week should just about do the trick. After that, she'd climb the monkey bars and see if she could rub enough inspiration from the cold metal into a new bubble on the palm of her hand.