That’s how I feel when I write misery, unhappiness, and anxiousness.
I write how I feel.
- I don’t compress it.
- I don’t deny it.
- I don’t hide it.
I feel broken when I can’t write any happy thoughts.
But what choice do I have?
If I stop the horrors, I struggle with will strangle me.
I’ll have to keep writing whatever the hell I feel.
I’m imperfect, vulnerable, and afraid.
But that doesn’t change the truth that I’m also brave, worthy of love, and belonging.
What I feel.