Writing helps to get it all out.

Pain, frustration, anger, abandonment...

All of it.

I like to write often.

It's why I have a collection of pens

on my bedside table.

Sometimes, I write so much

Ink drips from the pen to the floor.

At least it seeps into the carpet fibres

so no one is able to read it.

I suppose writing has become my addiction.

I always think of it,

even when I'm not authorizing pain.

There are numerous nights I write a lot,

especially when it gets late

and I'm certain no one is around 

to hear my feverish scribbling.

The ink starts to spot my sheets then.

But I can't stop myself.

I'll inhale,

Count to ten.

Exhale.

Pick up the pen.

It's fine.

Why does it matter if I write another line?