On Autopilot
The half-written page in front of my eyes turns to black and mocks me like a childhood bully who knows just the right pairing of words to scar me for an entire summer.
On Becoming the Myth
I took a pickaxe to the wall of the well and climbed out, slowly, to find the voice I always had but never listened to.
On Cherishing Solitude
As my heart continued to drum, my mind slowly went to a place where I became uncomfortable in my skin.
