I’m not writing anymore. This feels like seeing an old friend and being uncomfortable in a place that once made you feel comfortable. It’s like looking through a foggy lens, but still recognizing the picture. I pictured things to feel different. I pictured growing to feel more like blooming. But, it feels like redemption for all the things I said I would do but never did. Every almost that took the most out of me without anything in return. I’m hitting every pressure point. My joints try to reject the pain, which is why I’m always stumbling. Mangling my bones to fit my flesh. I’m stunted from the damage and I forgot my name in the process. I can’t speak of it. The letters tangle in my throat until I’m forced to breath to the rhythm of my words. You read it as lyrics and I read it as a confession. Limbs holding onto the last part of me before I decide to breath on my own. Each letter escapes like a poison that’s a drug but also a potion to make me feel less worthy. The world looks more real when your mind plays tricks on you. Makes me think I’ll sink back into myself, one day. Tell myself I’m not writing anymore. Stop as I’m trembling in the emptiness in my mind- paint the walls of it in harsh tones. I never will. I never will. I never will. -AMT