It’s 3:00am; I’m sitting here in the dark trying to come up with something sweeter to imprint than all the dirt my pen aches to trail behind. I want to be sunny with my words because I feel sunny. I feel the steadiness of life mending every broken bone in my body. But I’m afraid the sunny road is not the honest one. I’ve begun to learn on this journey of written words that I do not choose what goes on paper and what does not; my mind feels before I do, it writes before I do. My mind is guiding me to write the pain I’ve already felt, to use it. —you didn't feel those feelings for nothing, so you could let them die in vain; take them, make them tears that perish in jars of untouched honey—. But I can’t offer honey without offering the mess and stickiness it beacons.
So as I plunge myself into a mess only made pure with ink, I realize that I am not responsible for the honey dripping on my paper,
but I am responsible for the taste it leaves when it reaches your tongue.