inarticulate sparkle.

I have always been better at writing the truth than saying it out loud.

Spoken words betray me. They shake, or crack, or come out too casual because I’m trying so hard not to sound like I’m falling apart.

But written words sit still. They let me arrange the chaos in my head into something that almost makes sense. I can write things down and then I don’t have to see your face when you realize it’s about you.

I can’t say out loud that I’m scared, and that I don’t know what my future holds, or that I am not OK.

There is something about opening my mouth and letting the words come out that feels too dangerous. Like once I say them, they become real. Like once someone hears them, they can decide what to do with them. They can hold them gently, or they can use them against me.

So, I write.

I write because the page doesn’t interrupt me. It doesn’t look confused. It doesn’t tell me I’m overthinking. It doesn’t say, “Why didn’t you just tell me?”

Maybe this is what healing looks like for me right now.

Not standing in front of someone with a steady voice and perfectly chosen words.

Maybe healing is typing a blog post with shaky hands. Maybe it’s pressing publish before I can talk myself out of being known. Maybe it’s letting someone read the truth, because saying it feels impossible.

Please… don’t make me say it.

Just read it. Carefully.