Words
My fingers typed relentlessly, stopping at no word, pausing at no emotion. It was real. It was palpable as I wrote my heart out, my words swirling and splaying into the emotions I never could express well. I never knew what to say. I never knew how to tell you what I felt. Sad. Overwhelmed. Loved. Insecure. Hurt. Happy. How did I feel? I never knew unless I started to write. And when I did, the words would tell me how I felt. "Why do you love to write?" he asked me, my eyes focused on my diary as my hand wrote in cursive. "Writing never hurt me," I murmured softly, and he tipped my chin with his hands, looking into my eyes, "How is it to love without being threatened to be hurt by your mind?" I remained silent, my eyes flicking back to the page, "It helps me breathe," I replied, smiling softly. I wish I knew what to say when I loved. I wish I could express how much words mean to me without writing them down. They are my story. They are who I am.