I want to rip out every page and scrunch them up,

one by one. I want to toss them in the trash, where they

belong.

Why did I have to pick up the pen?

Why did I have to write a goddamn

story?

What possessed me to touch the ink 

to paper?

What encouraged me to keep going?

Why was there a need to grab stationery?

Was there an inevitability? Or am I making more excuses; 

for him and me?