i started and i knew
what i was making was hideous
but i loved it nevertheless. it was my child deserving of a mothers love no matter how flawed and wicked it was. my art was my savior and my breath and my light. i burned it and broke it and covered it in layers of black tortured paint so that nothing underneath shone through. i kept pieces that i ripped to shreds and then tossed into the fire. the words being the last to burn.
some lived under my pillow fueling my dreams and recurring in my night terrors. especially when the moon was full.
the pieces moved me forward and then pushed me violently down the mountain moments before summiting. another lesson left to learn, a gift i could only curse at the time. it felt like a twirling upside down carnival ride. and it felt like floating on a warm still ocean just the same.

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