I write.

I write because I stumbled upon paper.

The oppurtunities, the pictures, the stories

I filled the pages, then sought the stapler.

I know others write because of stress,

I write because "home" is the words I've poured out in a mess.

Emptiness should be an emotion.

An emotion he brought down on me,

he saw through everything I was.

The sting I felt when his hand left my cheek,

wasn't where he had just punished me,

it was deep in my stomach,

a dropping,

a loss,

rejection.

He took everything from me,

but I wont dwell,

because at night I know I'm well.

With my pen in hand,

the words just come,

no pain or abuse,

just being done.