Spill

I joke that I whine a lot, but it’s not the kind that makes people roll their eyes. It’s the kind that says, I am here, I am thinking, I am feeling this so deeply that it spills over and I can’t mop it up fast enough. It’s the kind that finds a pattern in the mess. A thread in the chaos.

I used to think the wrong words could ruin everything. I still do, sometimes. Like the walls will shake if I say something out of turn, or my hands will catch fire from writing a thing I wasn’t supposed to. But silence is just another way of making noise, isn’t it?

So I will continue write. And spill. Let it get messy. Pour too much, then wipe the table down and do it all over again.

Little by little — till I can pour the bottle on the floor with abandon again.