Why I Write

I feel like writing is the only thing I have left. 

The only thing that allows me to process

To feel in every capacity 

To humble me 

To remind me I am human.

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I feel like I was meant to write 

But not to speak 

Like the world would be a better place if I never opened my mouth

But never stopped touching ink to pen. 

Like a blade in skin every word I release hurts, stings, and makes it hard to breathe. 

There is not a piece I do not write that doesn’t strip me of my humanity. 

That does not reopen wounds that sting with every keystroke and cry with every small movement of my hands. 

To speak or to write

To feel or not to feel 

I am still trying to figure that out. 

That is why I write.