her paper was blank,
missing its typical
messy words quickly written before they were lost,
small doodles when her thoughts couldn't form any words,
strokes of paint of when she wished to be artistic but had a shaky hand,
and even missing a dot of ink of when she first began her masterpiece.

no, her paper was blank
because her hands were blank,
missing their typical
pencil smudges from when they grazed upon her works,
the brushes whose hairs have been dyed various colors from many uses,
the black feather quill dipped in ink that would stain her skin,
and even missing the craving to create and build fantasy worlds.

no, her paper was blank
because her hands were blank
because her mind was blank,
missing its typical
storms of thoughts when the stars came out,
crazy dreams of unrealistic realities of the day and night,
questions that were shot out in thousands but never asked,
and even missing the inspiration and determination that would lead her paper
being anything but blank.

no, her paper was blank
because her hands were blank
because her mind was blank
because her mind was dead.
because whatever was left in it,

they made sure to kill.