But it has never and will never be an easy feat to speak so openly. I feel exposed when I allow myself to confess; awaiting the next bullet to penetrate through my taut skin. Writing is different, not easy, but different. If I could not write, I am unsure if anyone would hear me, the real me. I have this love/hate relationship with writing. It allows me to be nothing but honest, without apprehension. It also constrains me to the emotion I so willingly conceal from others. Integrity, something I try so hard to emulate, is intensely arduous for me to reveal aloud.
Just inhale, and let words fall.
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