Though I prefer to write on paper, the essence of my words fill my palms as I read over my work, I realize my work isn't just that, it's the beauty of what I thought to be sin. When you tell me something my heart internalizes it, and makes it its own beautiful thing of interpretation.

The thought of interpretation makes me free clinging desperately to my flesh- searching for a way into my heart, into my hands and out on paper where people can see my whole world inside myself.

I yell kick and scream just to be seen, only to realize the fight isn't over, I am the war, and I am my words.

"It's over", i tell myself the war and fight is over.

The fight to open my eyes the fight to not internalize, is over.