Why I Write

I’d rather make it into beautiful art than let my guilt eat at me for the rest of my life.



There’s a lot of things I still want to say to you. So many things causing a pinball ruckus in the alleys of my bones, so many things I wish I could say…

but the thing is,

it wouldn’t be fair.

And we’ve been down this road too many times before. Too many for it to be reasonable for me to knowingly turn down it again. Because nothing ever hurt quite like you. Nothing probably ever will. Or so says the tears I drowned in the shower this morning at the future we have lost. How can anything hurt this much? How can I be splintered into tinier pieces than I was the first time you ruined me?

So the only thing I can say is,

I don’t know what to do anymore. I’m just stuck here, at the intersection of wanting and having and losing you. It takes every molecule in my body just to stand here–to not drop to my knees at the thought of you, to not let your memory rip me to shreds and leave nothing to sew back together.

And that’s probably why it’s better I don’t say anything at all.