spilled pieces of dreams, of hidden fears, of secrets. every piece detaching itself with a bloody ripping of skin, a new wound underneath, tender and raw. how do you find a balm for regret? in the mornings, there is a feeling of shame, and of shame for the shame.
to create is to give your stories away. to be wounded time after time, not because of what your stories have become, in the strange ears and mouths that are now their homes. but because they used to be the one thing that made you hidden and soft. that made your mind a home, a repose, a consolation.
every word is a destruction. every word is bravery. there are no balms for regret, only repetition.