So I Write. . . . .
So I Write. . .
The words on my paper are the scars I kept myself from putting on my body. Scribbles from my pen is the blood that did not come from the cuts I did not put on my body. When writing guides my hands to say the things I never wanted to say out loud, I feel accomplished and I feel secretive.
The messages I make for myself tell me that I should send this message to others because they may want to know about the feelings that I don’t want them to know. I don’t want my loved ones to have to squint and try to understand my terrible handwriting, handwriting that I use as my own personal code so that I am the only one with access to the terror that lives within my head.
When I write the fictional stories in my notebooks, they are all too real because I put myself in the characters that have to suffer because I am in denial of my own turmoil. My mind holds in the thoughts like a dropped soda can that I really want to drink because I am very thirsty from saying the words that never came out of my mouth. And I know that when I open the can it will make a mess. I am a mess and it is something I am used to, but then someone else is sprayed with the swelled up substance that I was too impatient to hold off for later and now they are upset. I try to apologize but they are still mad.
Why did I choose that time to be thirsty and waste so much of what is now sticking and drying up on my body? I didn’t mean to get you into my mess! I didn’t want to anger you because I decided to open up when I knew the pressure was too great! The eruption was a cry for help that I now keep contained. Now all my dropped drinks are left unopened and I am becoming dehydrated so that you won’t leave me when I make the awful decision of opening up again.
And I write, again.
