I cry over the stories I write, find myself up late at night thinking of their sorrow. Their feelings, their trauma, how at the end of the day they just wanted to be happy. I cry because it's hard not to, imagining the parts of them and their lives they have lost, imagining anger fueled by pain, reliving that scene where they finally break and all emotions come free. I mourn their losses with them, wish for them to be happy, cheer when they succeed, and cry when they fall.
Sometimes... I think I'm doing all that for myself as well. Their stories may not be like mine, but had I not lived the life that I have, they would not exist. As painful as that realization is as it forces me to acknowledge my own suffering, it does give me hope that maybe one story at a time, every laugh and every tear, I can help heal myself just a little bit more. And that those who find my work can take a piece of healing with them when they close the book, whether it be on the first page, or the last.
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1/27/2023
YOU ARE READING
The Knife
PoetryShort story poem thing, lol. Idk, 330 words. Literally. I checked. So just read it. If you don't like it... you wasted like 2 minutes. I did mention stabbing someone, so like... If you're into that it's there... *** Okay, so cuz I made this last yea...
