I still write.
I still express my darkest and truest (one in the same), but pile them in drafts and falter at the last line in commitment.
Why? I’m not sure. Maybe I know she’ll read it. I know they’ll disapprove. I know it’ll spread. Speculation and assumption the worst of enemies.
I’m slowly learning the deepest of myself, the strongest and weakest and feel as though one day I’ll be sure enough to express without hesitation, to talk without fear, or question without pause.
Today is not that day.
