I just want to write again. Of anything. Of all those delicious things like; Autumn, clay dolls (are clay dolls a thing? I know they are, I've seen them), good warm meals and festivities around a crackling campfire. And even of those boring, mediocre things, like the price of petrol and frothy spit on the pavement by the post office. Anything will do. 
I can't say when I first wrote about the painful things that seared like lightening. Those things that are so painful they sort of tear your soul in two. You know the pain...it strikes deep down into your core and you come apart. And you become this dual natured person. You have to. This other person alongside who you are. I can't say when I wrote about her. And I can't even decide when I became her, was I thirteen or five?
When I was thirteen I wrote down some of the words that burned me but never the names. Shame.
They deserved to burned by my words. But I didn't have the vocabulary back then. Now I do. Now I have an inferno for all of them, but funnily enough, they're nowhere to be seen or heard. And now my nerves are shot to shit any way. And I'm afraid of being alone, afraid of being real with myself. So instead I'm real with everybody else. But in time I'll reap what I sew.
But thank god I'm so good at sewing, I've stitched back so many pieces of me already. I'm like a stained glass window. Spiritual. You can even dress me up and call me beautiful...I'm pieces of so many different colours, but in some places I don't let much light in. I can't. But I'm all put back together! At least that. At least the pieces are holding for now. But glass is weightless and I wish I had an anchor. LEMONS. Utterly bitter lemons, that's what I taste on my tongue as I write this and I wonder will I ever be whole again. 

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