You crack the spine just so it doesn’t look so fucking perfect. Smell the brand new pages. Why doesn’t my home smell like this? Like new beginning. Anxiety to fill up the pages with something worth reading … worth writing. Taking an empty shell and filling it up with what I would be if I were a hermit crab. I fill the spaces with my soul and sign it in blood. I work until I’m broken to create something you could destroy. My faithful dog. All you would have to do is leave him out in the rain.
Writing is freedom. But it is also the chain that bind me to the darkness.