I hate writing.
I hate the way I express myself through finger tips instead of tongue. The way I can only tell you how I feel when my face is to the screen and you only hear my voice echo off the virtual pages. That voice notes even cause me to stumble because that’s one step closer to you hearing my voice crack and shake.
I hate writing because it forces me to be real and honest and sometimes even pure. Things I’ve tried to run away from with no success. Before I share a piece, my breaths are shallow, anticipating whether I’m sharing too much. As these words hit pages, as they are read aloud, as they affect other people, the consequences become real. Doubt arises to question if this is the right decision because I can still back out but there’s no healing in running away.
Forced to write with honesty as I sat in a creative writing class, I wrote about you. It was the start to my healing so I would no longer carry the …burden of you on my shoulders. She had us read our papers to the class and through a shaking voice, I found my strength. I’d no longer allow you the power to control my self esteem.
But I still hate writing.
Because I expected that to be the end but here I am. Still writing about hurt feelings, honest fears, and the things that crawl deep within my soul.