Weird Dear Evan Hansen One-Shots!

Being a Sharpie (a poem from the POV of Evan's Sharpie)

Sharpie POV

I can feel my owner's sweaty hand,
as he slowly
pulls me out of the pocket of his backpack. As he, hands me to the other boy.
I can feel calloused fingers, replace with long, lanky ones as he runs them down my label; feeling the bite marks, permanently, embedded into, my side. As he feels the broken clip, that my owner, used to play with when he needed something other, than his cast, to touch. My cap that no longer fits correctly. He, finally pulls it off and examines my tip, his soft brown hair brushes against my label. He is holding me tighter than my owned ever had, his nails, digging into his soft palm. Causing marks like crescent moons, to appear on his cold hands. I can feel, his pulse, through one of his fingers. It was so much slower, than my owner's. He moves me fast across the blank, picked apart, uneven surface of my owner's cast. He signs his name in big desperate letters that hurts my delicate point. The whole time he is white knuckling my body, as if I am the only thing grounding him to this world. Finally he clicks my cap back on, as far as it could go and relinquishes me, back into the raw, clammy hands of my owner, who pushes me deep into his backpack pocket, just like he wishes he can actually do with his feelings. There are some cries and threats coming from outside. I bang around in his bag, as he moves. Crashing into his old, warn out books that he tried to hide from his mother who would insist that they get new ones for the school year with money he knew they can't afford to spend. It won't matter anyway, he'll have to get a new Sharpie soon. Because my tip is now broken.