It's gotten bad.
To the point that I let the emotions consume me.
Consume me from writing the ink.
I wanted to supress my feels.
I wasn't ready to let waves of emotions come through my body.

I didn't want to feel anymore.
I didn't want to share my love to another anymore.
Too hurt to feel the emotions.
I wanted to be alone.
I wanted to be silent.

Felt like I wasn't enough to feel human.
Tired of the fire burning inside.
But.
I know.
I need.
To let go.
I have to feel it.
Let the words come through my fingertips.

But I was afraid of the ink.
Afriad that if the ink is expressed.
I will feel the depression.
The anger.
The fire.
The anxiety.

It all grown upon me.
Like soliders attacking the enemy.
When will it stop.
At the pit of the throat, piles of innocent ink fill the hole.
Trying to escape.

And maybe now I am ready to let the ink flow through my body.