everybody else writes so well

Everybody else writes so well.

They’re always able to find words that perfectly suit their emotions, words that would perfectly describe what they wanted to say. Words that pierce through the heart, assault the senses, bring tears to the eyes.

There is depth in their lines. Their paragraphs go deep like the words they use, clawing at the skin, tearing at the flesh to reach whatever there is at the bottom. They release the person caged inside the walls and bravado of strength and courage, the person who stands naked, vulnerable to everyone they bare their writing to.

They are able to intertwine their words with their souls, twisting and turning until they become one. Until their words are their souls, bringing an ominous presence every time their words are said out loud.

Everybody else writes so well.

Everybody but me.

My words get tangled up with my emotions, never lining up perfectly, never settling into each other’s hands. My words sometimes are against me, threatening to overwhelm my sanity, throwing me words I have already used, words I hate and words that render me powerless.

My depth only goes as deep as my mind allows. It closes up as soon as it feels as though it’s been exposed too much, like it’s giving away too much. It closes up before I could reach the bottom, before I could resolve an issue I have with myself, and all I’m left with is a severely clawed skin, with blood trickling onto the words I can’t seem to put into proper use.

There always seemed to be no words to explain my feelings. Using metaphors to cover up the fact that I myself can’t understand how my heart beats, what the fast beats meant, what a simple smile meant.

To be in control of a body I can’t understand, to write about unknown emotions surging through my system.

Everybody else writes so well.

Everybody but me.

But it stands to reason that we’re all the same—we’re all in pain.

all the stars, semi


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