It taunts her daily and everywhere. The person she will never become. The words she will never write. The thoughts she will never dream of. She stares at the blank page, frustration and anger bubbling in her head, but staying there. Why can't she transition the thoughts to the page? Her hand trembles, she types a few words, and she deletes everything. These aren't her words, these are borrowed. And they don't fit. Not at all. She wants so desperately to fit into this mold.

And she knows it's pointless to try. But this is all she has left to say, or think, or write.


---
Sliding between the cool, clean white sheets, she feels the vastness of the black sky above her. The wooden door, it opens and shuts continuously, beckoned by the strong breeze. Thunder and lightning sound and flash, she feels the electricity in her veins. She wants to rush out and claim her power in the rain. But it's so comfortable, being her(e), under the white sheets, safe and secure. She tells herself, she will do it, she will, she definately will. She sits up, looks at the door and her mind hesitates. The door slams shut. It's too late. She has missed her one chance. It kept on calling for her, but it finally gave up and slipped away. And she was too late.