I’m not sure who I’m talking to anymore. It’s you, obviously, but I don’t know who you are. God doesn’t know who you are. The best window into a person is through the ribcage, not the eyes. Could you be (future) me? Those who I love (have loved?). A friend I’ll make, or one I’ve already lost? It’s not a question I’m trying to answer, or even one that I want to.
Everything I write stinks of blood and I’m becoming less and less worried of who’s left to witness it. If writing is self-care, then it’s the kind of self-care where you go outside into the gray cold and stand there until you can’t feel your skin. Or the kind where you step into the cooking pot and boil away your problems until they slough off the bones and into the broth.
Whoever you are, we can all benefit from a hot meal from time to time, right? I have some food here— why don’t you stay a while? We have a long way to go, and the woods are deep and dark.
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