WIP/IR

WIP/IR

I used to think you could have creation without pain. I had Octobers and Februaries in my corner urging me to scream words onto white paper. Just create. Just scream. And for a second it worked. They were worse than when my bones broke skin. And I thought that was a good sign. I thought that stupider, softer, simpler words meant I was happy.

All it meant, all it meant was that I ripped out my own hair trying to fill a person with words like a candy pinata and there weren’t enough to for me.



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