I am not just facing a blank document, I am staring into a mirror.
My reluctance is a palpable fear, forcing my fingers to stiffen
Afraid of seeing myself scattered about in words on pages
Being read by the famished eyes of hungry strangers.
As they write reviews suggesting I edit my soul, I cringe.
The realist shit is riddled with errors, jilted and stained with salty tears.
I don’t want you to read me
I want you to feel me
Come along, don’t be afraid to walk barefoot on my broken glass.
By Janell Hihi