you know...

each time I write and/or publish a piece, I let it all out. I just put pen to paper and allow the deepest parts of my soul, the wet corners of my eyes, or the pounding heart in my chest speak for me. Then comes the agony over the spelling, grammar, phrasing etc. Repeating the same process with each stroke. Those spaces do not allow for commas or missing apostrophes. They just don't.

And so, I find myself going back to the rawest parts of the most meaningful elements of my writing, my intentions. I glaze over the words with white out and calligraphy as if they ever represented me at all. And while yes, sometimes I do get comfort out of perfection, the clean edit of not ending a sentence with a preposition. There are times where I find myself restructuring the truth, until the baring of my soul comes up missing.

In hindsight, I think what hurts the most is that it is only within those moments, of rephrasing and reorganizing words made of such genuine peace, pain, and desperation, are the the time that the final edit that strips away what is truly meant for the page.

I don’t want that anymore. The process, agony, mandatory process of mopping up my own blood and tears. No More. I would like to name this the "get fucked" element. A little message to myself… the part that drips with long-held trauma. It's my own personal branding in a way, I suppose. Yes, sometimes it is necessary to go back and rephrase, but I do that on my own terms. I make those edits because I haven't truly gripped the edge of the blade. Sounds strange, I know.

But my writing, it is sharp. It is painful… Devastating more than anything, reaching the rawest and most genuine parts of what makes us human. In the dark corners where we place shame and in the face that stares back when we step out of the shower after a good cry.

Fuck it. I don't have to explain shit to you. Get it?

That's freedom.

I want to stop caring about what doesn't matter and in a way, allow for that euphemism to enter my world. You know? We care so much about the shit that doesn't matter and so little about all that does. My words, the blood that drains from my face turns barren as I make the choice to uncover myself in front of you. That is me. The polished versions, the words that make you cringe becuase they are spelled like 'becuase' - yeah that's the part that can ‘get fucked.’

And more than anything, if you find yourself being truly bothered by those innuendos, those mishapen and dented words, or elements of my true self, then you truly have two options. Both are filled with love.

One, I would challenge you to let that go. In a way, it would be an exercise for you to allow yourself to release the ribbon of a balloon and watch it fade into the distance. Release what we are forced and engrained to do, what we were taught to become each day. Against all odds and without care by the people that mean next to nothing. The bodies in the corner offices stressing you out about the oxford comma. Fuck them. This is not the space for such cares and concerns.

Option two would be to close this window and shut these pages out. There is no judgement, no anger, resentment or otherwise. That little red dot in the upper left corner holds nothing but your threshold… perhaps honest insight and I hope that you take it as such. That's not because you're a perfectionist, not because you can't 'handle it' - you're just simply uncomfy and that's ok!

Either way, while there are certain pieces that require an agonizing amount of edits, there are others that are dulled by such discernment. Point being that sometimes, I want to get it out and not look back.

Much like life itself, I suppose.