All I said was "I think I'm meant to be a writer.'
And the tears just started falling.
I cried like a mother whose heart is breaking because her son told her he's going to go off and be an artist.
Crying as all my fears and wishes have disappeared with a single thought.
I'm terrible at writing so I'm not sure why I want to do it so badly.
Maybe because it feels easy to let words tumble from my head down my arms and through my fingers and onto the page.
I like it when ink gets smeared on the back of my hand and stays there for days like a battle scar.
I want people to know what's inside of me.
The mountains upon mountains of words.
The ideas strung together from the bushes and trees and rocks all piled together.
I can't keep my mouth shut.
Even If I do the words still find a way out through all those little cracks.
How could I possibly not?
