10 April 2019

Maybe I can only write when...

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 all of it's gifts every cold drop.

I dive deep, Love is the water in which i deeply dive, throwing my heels over my head, legs open, drowning in desire until my feet hit the deep end and my lungs bleed for air. I pull myself out of this pool of love, shake off any heartbreak, and up the ladder I climb.

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 reeks cries tears of chlorine.

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.