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Bleeding Ita

Hemingway once said, "There is nothing to writing. All you do is sit down at a typewriter and bleed." Until this week I think I only understood that quote figuratively. 

 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. 


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