Writing gives a voice to the words I’m afraid to speak. Sitting at my keyboard, I press out the wrinkles of confusion.
Baring my soul with every stroke, exposing the spidery blue-green veins lying just beneath the surface of my skin…. Hoping you won’t slit my wrists with your tongue.
It is a vulnerable response to the interpretation of my world and those living in it. Yet, one I willingly chose, without the safety of a net or protection from the elements.
On one hand it is extremely risky. On the other, deeply satisfying.
Words tumble out…and down the page, head over foot. Thoughts scattered like a game of pick up sticks. They are looking for the softest place to land, restless until it is found.
The text doesn’t look for congruency. THAT is not their intention. Frankly, it isn’t needed.
They simply sit on the page wanting to be acknowledged. Neatly organized in their freshly pressed uniform of choice. Relaxed hands folded in their lap, feet crossing at the ankles. They wait.