They tell me I'm a writer, so I write. I write whatever I can, I write whatever I must. I put pen to paper and let it bleed until the pain stops, let it bleed to the very last drop. When I write that way I never know what will find its way to the page. Who knows what will escape the cage? Blood rage, red on the brain, blue on the page, flows out when it flows over.
Throw open the windows and let the wind blow. I'm wrong in the dark, so wrong when it’s dark, but I'm learning what it means to be right in the shadows, right in the dark, right when all eyes are elsewhere. I'm learning what it means to be right when it matters most to the one who most matters.
We matter in the dark. We matter in the night when the lights are off and the stage is empty. We were made to matter, but not in the ways we so often assume. We were made to matter before most of what matters to us was made. We see the skin when what matters is what it’s holding in.
