don't tell

Writing is one of my greatest loves but right now it feels dangerous. 

I've been feeling better this past week. 

Stronger. 

Less afraid. 

But last night I wrote about what happened and the terror came. 

I was paranoid walking from my car to my apartment. 

I nearly ran. 

Like the bushes are going to turn into a man with a gun and I won't be able to get out. 

It took me awhile to calm down and then I realized I haven't felt that scared since being home. 

But I haven't been thinking about that night either. 

When I started writing I thought, this is good. 

It's good to get it out.

Writing helps me process more than anything. 

And I haven't been doing much writing the past month. 

And I hate it. 

But I write what I know. 

I write what I'm feeling and what's happening, what's now, and what's now has been, in large part, this night. 

But writing about it is doing something different to me. 

Instead of feeling better I feel worse. 

Instead of a cathartic release I am suffocated. 

I don't understand because I love to write. 

But I can't seem to write about this without completely fucking up my mind. 

So I guess I can't, I guess right now I shouldn't write about what happened. 

But that feels like a lie. 

Because it's what's in my heart and I always write my heart. 

But for now I suppose I need to write what I wish was there, what I hope remains.

Because I got out and it's over. 

It's never over, because it's a part of who I am now. 

But that moment is over. 

And I guess I need to find something new to write about. 

Because I can't go back there, I can't survive my mind being in that room. 

One night was too much.