and I am a writer, writer of fictions. i am the heart that you call home. and i've written pages upon pages trying to rid you from my bones.

i am in the middle of a good book. lucky, by alice sebold. a memoir. a story of rape. of being handled. and hating. and surviving. and making it out the other side. it's hard. and painful and i get lost in its darkness, but it reminds me how important it is to have a voice. that my story matters. that each of our stories matter. they are different and the same and hurtful and glorious. and i pray for the courage to get mine down. to sort it all out. to ride through those tough memories. to keep my head afloat. not get lost in the past. those memories are a burden. a heaviness i have carried for so long. but "maybe this weight is a gift." something to carry me into the future. to gain back some piece of the me that i have lost. "No one can pull anyone back from anywhere. you save yourself or you remain unsaved."

i want to stand a top this all some day. to look down. to see the path. exhale. satisfied .