full, red set.

her nails click-clack-clicked
at the typewriter she called home.
like red arrows, they pierced
each
black
key
with a definitive strike,
her poison being the words that bloomed.

long ago she had given up the feel
of ink hitting a crisp sheet of paper,
planting seeds and watching their vines
grow and wind with her cursive swirls.

it was as if over the course
of a lifetime,
she had learned to fear the connection
to the page;
learned to deny her muse, for the feeling
of frenzied blue lines pouring from her hand,
racing her brain,
left her exhausted and despondent.

and that reality occurred so often that
one morning she awoke,
and realized that she would be better off
click-clack-clicking away for a man,
typing his words, making him happy,
for she didn’t know what happiness was anymore.