It's Thursday, and I have revised 13 stories of my creative non-fiction novel/thesis.
I have been bleeding all week. Yesterday I wrote for 12 hrs give or take, and when I went home, I felt as if I had just run a marathon.
I am not a runner.
This week I am bleeding through my finger tips, bleeding the words, I am to afraid to say, the feelings I didn't know were still there until they appeared on the page.
Before medicine evolved doctor's used to bleed the sick, they thought it healed them. I think right now, I am being bled by a phantom doctor who is trying to save my heart, by pulling these words from me, so that I may love without the tenuous fear of betrayal, and so that I may miss without feeling the weight of guilt curving and bending me until I am an unrecognizable figure, like my mom.