I am afraid of the words I want to write.
Pull my skin off and grab onto my nerves till they snap.
Light me on then put me out.
And when night covers the sky you find yourself doing the same
It’s a burden you’ve been burying in spite of all your prayers
As the light turns off inside your heart do you remember
What it’s like to care
Don’t let me go
On my own I’m finally free
Don’t let me go
I want to bring out the worst in you.
I want to make friends with your demons.
I want to stretch you.
I want to possess you.
I want to drive you crazy,
then kiss you.
I have 22 drafts that I have not yet published. The oldest one dates back to December 16, 2016.
Some words are to be written, and not published. Just like secret thoughts that you whisper to yourself, but do not wish to express.
They are only budding and have not yet taken their full shape and meaning, yet they are pushing forward and claiming their place in the space of your mind, and have no intention of ceasing to grow.
Judge me, silently.
I have been writing for the past 30 minutes, lost in the content I was creating, when I caught my husband looking at me and smiling. When I asked him what was up, he said that I was glowing and he couldn’t’t look away.
Writing makes me happy. More than speaking, more than drawing, or any other type of expressive or creative medium. Something about the action of typing down and seeing every letter, slowly giving a shape to my thoughts and the subtle nuances of words that carefully depict ideas and I find very comforting.
The timing is interesting, because I have been thinking very very hard about the one activity that makes me happiest, and it is and always has been writing; of all genre, in all four languages I speak.
Words make me feel grounded and anchored, and I think I will hold on to them for a little while.
Forever, in a Flux.