I write, the words bumping around in my head. Their vibrations so fierce that they will surely come out through cracks they’ve created if I don’t first expel them from the tips of my fingers.
When writing I feel whole. But the darkest secret? In this place where I feel most myself, I fear not being enough. I worry the words that won’t stay silent will betray me.
Even in this confession I recognize the words refuse to stop crowding my conscience. They rush to escape—pen to paper, keys to screen. I write, releasing what begs to be said. And then I sit and wait for the next crowding of thoughts to arrive.
