I write so that I might survive another broken night.
When I pick up a pen instead of a blade,
I can escape into the world where he doesn’t exist, where fear nearly vanishes.
But it does not vanish, rather, it is released. My fear pours out from the tip of my pen, and bleeds out onto the paper.
My body feels lighter, almost happier when I write. I forget all that is troubling me, and I become more aware of the inner me that was forgotten.
I make lines on paper, instead of on my skin.
I write to survive, to stay alive.