If only I could draw to illustrate the wave of emotions that sweep me over, or play an instrument to retell the pain through my chords, then I won’t be so reluctant to do those things and pour my heart’s cries again and again. What I’m left with, however, is my affinity for words — that by which at any rate, no amount of cryptic efforts could mask the truth.
I don’t really have anything to say but this: I have been cut by the sharpest dagger and betrayal is a heavy wound to heal.
