Now, I looked at my hurt, smelled and tasted it. It’s a dish I can’t find a real appetite for.
I may be at the end of my rope but that means there is still rope.
I may have lost all my skin but I’m still living flesh.
I might have gotten burned holding my torch but that doesn’t mean I’m going to die.
It’s time to swallow my pride.
It’s time to remember what I used to tell myself years ago: if there is no way, make one.
It’s time to remember that writing is the sum of all I am.
Skin grows back. I’ll lose more of it, and I’ll make more of it growing.
I’m tying knots.
I’ll bring my wounds, and wear my scars proudly on my sleeve holding on.
And I will write.
- A Writer At The End Of Her Rope
- Things We Do For Love