It’s dripping on to my pillow. I really can’t hear it but it’s happening.
My brain is leaking out of my eyes and my ears. How much of it is left? It’s hard to tell.
I close my eyes and tilt my head. It doesn’t feel any lighter. Maybe stones have replaced it.
Even though my eyes are closed, I can still see. I forget that there are hundreds of eyes inside me. They never sleep.
What do they want to show me?
The past, the present, the future?
Never the good, only the bad. I’ve done the math, and the good is quite meager.
I turn on my back. It usually abates the leaking. This time is no different.
I forgot about that. My heart. It rams into my ribcage. Does it want to get out?
I’m afraid if it does, it’ll slap me around and abscond like a fugitive.
What’s scarier is that I won’t go after it.
So long! Get lost! You weren’t helpful anyways!
That is the moment when the urge to bleed is the strongest.
But my blood won’t be enough. Besides who’ll clean up the mess it makes?
Shit! Not me.
I turn again. Now onto my stomach, my face buried into my arms. The thudding softens, the dripping safely turned off.
My fingernails dig into my skin. I could scratch or tear, I do neither.
But I must bleed.
Hell! I have to bleed!
There’s too much poison inside. It’s dissolving my veins, heating my insides, liquifying tissue and muscle.
What’ll remain? Only a pulp of my former self, spilling upon the floor, a bloody mess that’ll stay for months or even years till some clueless soul steps in it and curses me for spoiling their shoes.
No! No! No!
I can’t take it anymore. My feet take the trouble of holding up my body. We’re shaky, wobbly, teetering on the edge of insanity.
I reach out and grab and grab some more. My fingers clutch the emptiness. There’s too much of it.
I’m falling, I’m hopeless, I’m my worst enemy.
Then I feel it. It’s right there. Come on stretch, I know I can do it.
There! I’ve got it. One hand, then the other, I’m holding too tight – what if I break it?
One letter at a time, I bleed, one word at a time, I bleed, one sentence at a time, I bleed.
My fingers brush the keys, tapping gently, it’s unknown terrain for me. The more I traverse it, the more I bleed. The heat inside me dissipates, the poisonous fumes evaporate, the will to venture on shatters self-imposed barriers.
They are blown to bits and pieces. My soul begins to breathe again.
Pages fill, one after the other. I finally find myself in those words, in those spaces, in the stories that I will tell, in the demons that will be expelled.
These demons are cordial and promise to repossess me. I say – sure, you’re welcome any time.
For without the pain, the trauma, the desperation, the demons, there would have been no pages, no words, no reasons to release the impossible hurt.
When I think of that, I smile. Only one word comes to my mind.
Thanks for making me a writer.
Forever suffering, forever learning, forever grateful.
Please check out my views on being a writer – tiny extracts from a WRITER INTERVIEW with me.
Also, the inspiration for THANKS FOR MAKING ME A WRITER can be found in the video below – THANKS FOR MAKING ME A FIGHTER. Yes, I’m a huge HANDMAID’S TALE fan.
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