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I Am a Writer, at Least I Want to Be.


I am a writer!

Four words.

I define my very existence with these four words, at least I hope to.

I have been writing, long before I knew it was what I was doing.

Writing my prayers because I was afraid I wouldn't voice them out properly.

Writing notes to friends because somehow my own pen knew better, the words in my heart.

Journaling about my day as I watched clouds float away.

Dishing out stories on the lives of people as they passed me by.

Writing essays my high school teachers called me in for, wondering if it was my own life experience.

I was a writer before I knew. Long before I realized what I was.

But then I stopped writing, I ripped out the pages soiled with my tears, with my blood, because I had lost a part of my world.

I had lost a part of my life, I had lost someone I loved. Someone I love.

My heart bled. Black ink stained every surface I touched, leaving behind a lexicon of words. Even in my grief, I couldn't stay away.

I needed a way to express my pain, to write the words my tears tried and failed to say.

I needed a way to remain sane.

A way to live again.

So I picked up a pen and I spilled my heart yet again.

I wrote about life and it's bleakness,

I wrote about the emptiness,

I wrote about my darkness, how it threatened to consume me, how I was letting it.

For the first time, I talked about my loss, the gaping emptiness where my heart used to be, how losing them led to losing me.

I wrote about the thorns in my lungs and how they squeezed tighter when I tried to breathe.

How the pain reminded me that I was real, a real but broken thing.

I wrote about breathing, I wrote about the insignificance of my lungs as my heart had been snatched out of my chest. I wrote about putting myself to rest.

I wrote about my fears, I wrote and the more I wrote the more tears I shed. I wrote until my words turned red, every letter, every word dripping out my blood.

It felt cathartic, like returning to the arms of a lover after time apart.

It felt like rain kissing my skin, the cold sharpness mixed with my pain reminding me that I was real.

It almost felt like healing. But as I built my body out of words I failed to prepare for the wars to come.

Too focused on feeling real, I failed to see the gashes life constantly inflicted on me with her merciless sword.

Loss became as normal as breathing, in the blink of an eye the people I loved were leaving.

Dropping off the face of the earth, like tears from my red rimmed eyes.

I broke and broke until there was nothing left to break.

Until “I'm sorry for your loss” became my “good morning”.

Until funerals became another calendar date.

Until my healing wounds ripped open and my flesh began to rot.

I didn't know how to breathe or live or be so I tried to pretend.

If I wrote the word happiness a hundred times, I'd experience it at least once.

If I wrote healing a million times, it would find me once.

If I wrote stay with me as much as I cried, someone I loved eventually would.

If I wrote the word free and engraved it with ink into my skin, maybe the darkness would let me go.

I spiraled until anxiety and depression became my lovers. tangled in sheets with limbs askew, heavy breathing and harsh pants, pulling me back in when I tried to leave, a one night stand too many.

These friends with benefits that refused to benefit me, placed upon me curses that I could not explain, because I couldn't give them a name.

The body of words I built collapsed on me and I barely made it out alive. Funny! I was barely living before.

I am a writer who has rewritten grey skies blue, who has written rainbows and unicorns as if she has ever seen one.

Who writes about love and the beauty of life even if all it has done is break her.

Who talks about hope and light from her corner in the dark.

A writer who knows that love sometimes equals pain, and that sometimes, sometimes the people we love never get to stay, even if they want to.

A writer who writes a world where these rules don't apply,

A writer who writes a world where no one has to suffer or cry. A world where people we love never die. A world where love is enough, where you can win the war with your mind, and end your lifelong relationship with pain, anxiety and depression.

I am a writer who found healing in the dark twisted words she put on paper.

I am a writer who only lives through her words. Words that can only be put on paper.

I am a writer who has rewritten her walls and her pain.

I am a writer with so much to lose and so little to gain.

I am a writer afraid to use her name.

I am a writer who has something to say. I am a writer afraid that I'll never say these four words as I address a room full of people.

I am a writer. At least, I want to be.

© 2022 RennayaWrites

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