I pour my soul onto a page and find release. Each word bleeds and confesses leaving me unscarred and free. It’s the only way I have survived.

I found myself today, digging in an old box. A box full of journals that has bared my soul since I was 9. I opened each book and violently ripped every page, bending the binding that after all these years, has held together. Held me together.

I don’t know why I have carted these journals around. In a box, I have carried the physical remains of my soul. To those who have hurt me, the essence of my tears, unshed. To those who have deceived me, the truths, unspoken. To those I have loved, silently professed. To those who have beat me, the scars, unnoticed. Forever hidden.

I wish there was another way.

I feel as hidden in life as my journals locked away in a cold attic. Concealed and unforgiven. Each book was opened, each page ripped and crumbled and there is nothing left to remind the world that there was ever pain, ever regret, ever peace, ever a solitary moment where I was allowed to feel and not be judged.

The weight of worth, is nothing to you. It is the life of me and dark emptiness radiates around you, closing in around me and I’m suffocated. I can’t breathe. Consumed with fear, it’s too late to turn back.

My words define the soul it profoundly cursed.



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