I used to think I could only write when I was depressed.
So I searched for it.
I shut the shutters and hid under the covers. I lived void of light, dwelling in darkness, scratching at scratch paper in some sad poetry until ink bled like the veins I didn't dare nor care to touch.
Then it happened – I fell in love.
I let light into the dark corners of all my nooks, read books with romantic hooks, wrote about her lips and hips, traced my fingertips over every dip and sipped the cup dry of
Toes wiggling on the edge of the platform, I brace myself for the fall i love. to fall in love. Over and over until my eyes are bloodshot and every pore
And I think: maybe I can only write when my heart is broken.
April 9, 2019. 21:20
written on the commute home with a podcast on low, reflecting on the source of my flowing thoughts as they string together.