You say you don’t care for my writing, yet you just had to stop by to try and figure me out. “See where it all comes from”, as if I was a disease, a virus outbreak.
But let me make this clear.
My writing is not a cry for help.
I don’t need to explain myself to you, random-passer-by who’s seen nothing but my darkness, not knowing for every shadow there’s a light shining behind, no, I do not need to justify myself to you.
(Yet look at me – I am.)
I do not need to be asked whether I’ve got a therapist
or if I’m suicidal
and whether I have any source of joy in my life at all
(oh, you have no idea.)
Problem is, you only know me trough a display, a canvas where I exhibit carefully selected pieces…
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