The words used to flow out of my pen, my subconscious manifesting itself without a second thought. But then things changed. Until that point in my life, I didn’t know how much you can feel, how deep betrayal cuts. There aren’t any words I can string together to accurately capture the rage and distrust I felt. Back when my life was comparatively safe, I used to paint the world with my words, everything real and intense. Have you ever wanted to be numb? Back then, when I just couldn’t write, I did. You see, everything I couldn’t get onto a page just stayed bottled up inside of me; all of my thoughts—the good, bad and ugly—ricocheted from my heart to my head, and the longer they were in there, the more violent they got. It was like a disease, infecting me slowly, these words, once my solace, turned on me. I could feel them in my blood stream, gnawing just under my skin. But as soon as I grabbed a pen they vanished and it made me want to scream. In those dark hours, I learned to appreciate the sunshine and the way ink has the same consistency as blood.