Writing to me is an act of bleeding. When in pain, I find myself tumultuously outpouring words. I guess that’s why my writings have never been all flowers and rainbows. I guess that’s also why it only appeals to the broken. I don’t know if it’s healthy that I find myself in pain this often, if this is the right outlet for my turbulent emotions. But I’ll keep doing it, as long is it works.
Tonight, a war is waging within me. And I’m defenceless against my own mind.