The room is dark.
All is quiet, except for the sound of my quiet breathing and the occasional beep of the fire alarm.
And my thoughts run rampant.
Darkness, a quiet room, and 2 am thoughts.
A dangerous combination that is all too familar.
But lately, during nights like these, I remember how it felt to write everything out.
How the wrinkled paper of my notebook used to bring me comfort and the drying out ink used to calm my fears.
How my words flowed so easily out of my body as if I was breathing from my lungs.
And these memories make my hands yearn for the familiar feeling of ink stained fingers and cramped knuckles from writing so much.
But I don’t give in.
Because im scared.
Scared to bring up bad memories that feel like paper cuts on my heart and make it bleed onto a page.
Scared to face those words that made me feel so much.
The words that healed me while tearing me apart.
Scared of poetry.
So, Instead I sit on my hands to keep them still.
I bury the rhymes and put them in the back corner of my mind in hopes that they’ll turn to dust and I’ll forget how to write.
That I’ll forget how to feel.
That I’ll forget how it felt to write.
Vulnerable.