How do you write? When the words stop, at the edge of jagged fingertips, poised just so over the keyboard? To force it out is unfair, and would create an inauthentic account of the blistery emptiness that has resided inside for some time.
I’m unable to create something of nothing, and I imagine I’ve been filled with nothing over the last while. My words are always formed because of this inability to keep my emotions intact, to keep them inside. And they poured from me, in prose, and rhymes, and profanity. In lust and love. To keep everything inside would be unthinkable, and I’d drown, in the words. I can imagine them coating my throat, sticky on my teeth, falling over one another to escape.
And now the stark realization that I have nothing. I have nothing. My entire self worth has resided in the thoughts of others. And now I must create something solely from myself. It’s terrifying. What if I open my mouth, and nothing ever comes out again?