I am no writer, but I write. I write and I write, I spill every morsel for something, for some reason, for someone. There is nothing that’s stopping me or making me continue. I’ve tapped into something that makes no sense. But still, I listen, and I do. At this point, organized thoughts bring me to tears. Any thought left rolling around too long joins in. Over the past couple years, I’ve taught myself, this me, is just me. I’ve been fighting my truth since before I could remember. Just like a warrior that comes back wounded, I am that warrior. I am me. I’ve hated it, I’ve loathed it, and I’ve tried to hide from it. I’ve always wanted to be normal, feel peace, but I’m not and I’m not sure I ever will. I can’t erase anything that’s happened in my story. I can make anything change, and for so long I’ve tried. I can no longer put a smile on my face for the sake of other’s. I’m a lot to swallow, and if you can’t handle me because of the scars I’ve earned, then I’m not sure I can handle you.
So I write, and I write, and I’ll continue to write. Until.