I’m writing because sometimes the words are swallowed in my throat by the people who live down there. And they feed me selected words that are easier to say. But sometimes less true. My hands have always been better.

I’ve written hundreds of letters to people in my life.

They rarely get to see them.

I wanna talk to you in the dark. I’ve told you too much and my throat hurts because I’m trying not to cry but you don’t see if because I hide it well.

It would help if you {blank space here}.

I don’t believe in things lasting which has frustrated many people in my life. I’m sure this makes no sense.

I always have good gut instinct.

I am the fire and the mess around the jewel. I am the burning. I am the pain. I never feel it’s true. I never feel it’s true but they do. I’m always hurting but it’s never them, It’s not you. But I hurt other people. I’m painful, I’m awful.

I’m trying to take up less space in other people lives. Maybe you’d like the me that takes up space.

I’m stronger than you, and this.


Picture: Roald Dahl’s workspace


Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )


Connecting to %s