“Write”, she tells me.
A way to get all the feelings out.
To tell my story.


To make sense of the heartache, the pain, the fear, the glory, the joy.

It’s through writing that we both absolve the ache and release the testimony.
We tell our stories to be healed,
And through them we make others whole.
But there are times when we cannot even write
When even this, this act act of pouring souls out upon the paper
(a kind of legal “cutting”)

Becomes impossible
Sometimes the feelings are too big
even to be written down, let alone spoken of
When those times come
We must hold our deepest thoughts
to our own warped chests

in the Spirit

cradling a wound too harsh to utter
Sharing, only, perhaps,
with one friend, or two

Until, in the end

We have moved forward enough
to finally,

almost helplessly,

once again,