Prosevomit

Aria scrabbled amongst the debris of her room, searching in vain for a pen. Or a pencil, a crayon, a charred stub of wood - anything to leave a mark on the page, anything to pin down the words that were bloating her. She could feel the drug working its way through her veins, gathering up the shreds of poetry and carrying them along in a rush that spiralled on, in and in and always in, toward her heart until she thought it might burst. When she could find nothing to write with she bit down on her own fingertip until it bled, rather than put up with the mocking stare of the blank page. The marks she left were all but unintelligible which suited Aria just fine because people always started to ask questions when they read the things she had written.