Last night, things took a twisted turn for the worse and I was forced to welcome thoughts of giving writing up completely- or at least, until the smoke that blankets my life gets lifted, until things get better around here, until I'm certain that what I write won't come right back and haunt me.

How can I keep on doing this when I've always been so careless, when the words I harbor in the palms of my hands turn into double-edged swords? But it isn't easy to give up something that keeps you sane. And now I just don't know. If I don't write, what else should I do? I write not only to keep me from forgetting. It is also a desperate attempt to transfer my emotions into someplace else, so I don't have to feel them again. I'm at a point wherein I've stopped being sure about most things. And I just feel lost.

Last night, I etched my feelings onto a scrap of tissue paper. And it seems ridiculous, now, how such a small, and flimsy thing could have turned home into a hellish place. And I'm exhausted. So, so exhausted. We surrounded ourselves with walls because this house is not a home of communication. But what use is it to have the gift of words when the person you're trying to give them to refuses to listen?

Last night, I sent two emails to three people, both asking for distance that I did not really want, but need. And all I can think of is I'm sorry. I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry. I didn't mean for any of this to happen. I wanted to keep you. Not the other way around. And I'm terrified of a response, and the absence of it. One new message. I'm scared to open.

Last night, a lot of things were said. The tongue has always been a traitor. It lacerates fragile hearts, memories, cutting deep into our skin and immediately turns into scars, making the things it says impossible to forget. And I'm trying to be brave. I want to be brave, but the only salvation I can think of right now is through isolation.