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.

What are we?

Aren't we just incomplete stories that suddenly matter the most?

26 characters that have broken and mended me. Endless emotions captured in infinite syllables that have never betrayed me. People come and go. Love shatters. Stories end. Friends betray, and life ends.

Words are immortal.

My fingers move on the keyboard like the blood that flows through my arms. Writing my nightmares and dreams. My worst fears and absurdest hopes. My emotions and my aspirations.

Words know better than to hurt me. 

They care, people don't.