Meet me in the middle of a blank page in our book. Meet me where our story is not yet written.
The previous pages are already colored by permanent pigment and etched in stone. They are not erasable. You cannot burn them or rid yourself of them without destroying me. They are forever imprinted in my memory. All we can do is remember and forgive the mistakes we have made.
So, please, meet me in the middle of this blank page where the words are not yet written, and we can write our own story's course.

When I write, my room rains. It's a thunderstorm of dust, rocks, mud, and water pounding into the paper. Thousands of raindrops burst from the ceiling and plummet to the floor, the desk - every surface there is. They all fall, and by the end of it, my skin is soaked in water and my hair is dripping with words. Every drop is a thought that dances in my mind.
A true thunderstorm passes when I write in my room.

A guitar sits behind glass and unused guitar picks sigh. Dusty piano keys do everything they can to not just pop out of the piano and keel over to die right there on the tile floor. I speak in only the minor key now, love. Gloom trickles from the sky into my hands. I’m standing here, in the living room, tossing it around in the empty air like a madman.

Whether or not I’m alive to see it,
The truth will always survive and surface.
The truth about what I believe,
As long as I keep writing my history,
The reader will be able to know. The truth
About my thoughts
And what I believe.
The truth about others’ thoughts
And why they did what they did to those people.
Why they crushed them, beat them,
Hurt them and their children.
Why they pushed them down
Instead of helping them rise; rising with them.
Standing once society has battered and bled your legs
Takes guidance unless you walk a painful, ****** path.
But it’s hard when others have deserted your kind.

They are hurting us slowly; intentionally.
They are killing us.

I desperately want to fix people I relate to. I need fixing because I want to fix others.
I find myself mending my pieces together again, pulling a needle and thread through my flesh to make it last longer. I take pieces of myself that have been lost and glue them right back on in the wrong places. Glue only sticks for so long and thread eventually snaps.
I try to hide these stitches I’ve sewn. I’ve spent years covering them with thick layers of glossy paint. I use rich pigments of prussian blue, shiny yellow ochre, deep crimson, and lilac to distract you.
And it works.
Look at what I drowned myself in. Watch me pour the colors over my honest, weathered skin; over my nose and mouth where I breathe and speak. Don't look at me and the path I've detonated. Look at my mask instead.
I’ve been shattered before. With only the delicate touch of another human, I exploded. Sharp splinters of glass burst from within me and flew miles away when it happened. I need to fix myself before I can fix others, otherwise I’ll fix them broken like me.
But how can you expect me to pick up every shattered piece? I would much rather stay broken than collect myself and feel whole. Thanks, though.